The Wistful Letter
Act I I remember the sound of the water before I saw the flood, the way the underpass gurgled like a throat clearing after a long cough, and I stood at the top of the forty-seven Tannery Steps, watching the mud rise against the stone, knowing that the rent owed to the temple granary would not be met by the end of the month. The scribe’s work is a matter of precision, of ink and parchment, but...
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