The Faded Masquerade
The carts on cobblestones before light rattled through the Caucasus valleys, a dry, metallic percussion that signaled the start of another day in the rubber station. Ivana Beridze, a thirty-four-year-old border warden, woke in the watchtower to the sound of her own blood draining away, a recurring dream where her left hand was fused with the rotting wood of the gate. She wanted to clear her...
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