The Faded Sutra
The town of Shiretoko woke before the sun, a grey sprawl of dairy barns and fishing shacks where the air tasted of wet wool and diesel, and Sota Matsumoto stood in the signal tower’s living quarters, watching the frost creep across the windowpane that overlooked the frozen lake. He was thirty-two, a monk in all but name, serving a master who treated the sacred texts like ledgers to be balanced,...
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