The Pale Banner
The loom clacked, a dry, wooden heartbeat that filled the small, dust-choked room. Dalia Mansour pulled the white thread, her fingers slipping into the weave with a speed that made her breath hitch. She was weaving her own life out of her body, one strand at a time, to keep Youssef from the grave. The air in the attic was still, but the sound of the shuttle moving back and forth was a physical...
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