The Faded Root
Act I "Can a man give away his years?" Văn Ngoc asked, his voice thin against the draft that cut through the ferry cabin. He was fifty-two, though the hollows under his eyes suggested a man of seventy. The water below was the color of slate, churning against the hull of the boat that carried him toward the delta’s edge, where the marble hills stood cut open like wounds in the earth. He held the...
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