The Golden Cellar
The dust in the caravanserai courtyard was the color of old bone, settling on the linoleum of the shared kitchen where Bahram Nouri sat, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. He was thirty-two, a man who had spent the last decade watching the granaries under the night sky, yet here he was, in the cramped apartment above the textile mill, waiting for the bell to...
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