The Pale Letter
What does a man owe the ground that refuses to swallow him? Sotiris Karagiannis stood before the barred door of the Ministry, the heat of the off-season pressing against his skin like a wet wool blanket, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps that tasted of coal dust and salt. He was thirty-two, a clerk who had spent the last decade in the shadow of the canning factory, his hands stained not...
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