The Pale Bonsai
Yasin Kebede knew that the sound of the brake on the cart outside would mean the end before he even looked up from the blotting paper. He was forty-two, a lighthouse keeper for the Bureau, and his name was currently a ghost in the archives. The frost had come in September, early and hard, cracking the stone of the caravanserai where he kept his records. It was a cold that did not care about...
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