The Faded Bouquet
The salt caravans moved through Naples like a slow hemorrhage of white dust, clogging the narrow streets and turning the hillsides into blinding polytunnels of glare. I was Enzo Orsini, the imperial salt official, and I stood at the end of the line, my hands stiff from the cold that had taken the power from the grid three days prior. The border would close on Sunday, and the grain owed to the...
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