The Distant Promise
Could a man trade his own blood for a hand? Ama Frimpong stood in the hallway of coats and bicycles, the linoleum peeling in long, curling strips under his boots. The air was heavy with mildew and old iron, a humidity that ruined film and rotted wood with equal indifference. He was thirty-four, a senior court enforcer in the Palace of Whispers, a place that sat on the river like a tumor that...
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