The Wistful Ashes
Nadia Rustom, thirty-two, had spent the last decade counting the hours until her pension, a sum that would allow her to buy back the small plot of land her father had lost to the surveyors. The humidity in Tunis was a physical weight, a wet wool blanket draped over the white marble hills, ruining the film in the cameras of the federal writers' project office where she filed her reports. She...
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