The Faded Photograph
The valley floor stretched out in a bruise of purple and grey, the walnut groves standing like silent sentinels over the dry riverbed where the autumn fog clung to the roots of the earth. In the counting room of the merchant house at twenty-three of Stonecutter Alley, the air was heavy with ink and old paper, a scent that had seeped into the very grain of the wooden floorboards. Mahmoud Habib...
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