The Wistful Incense
Could a man be free if he owed the state his breath? Fang Xu stood in the mud of the coal prefecture, the storm wind tearing at his coat. He held the jade tablet against his chest, its surface cold despite the fever that had broken three days prior. The border was not a line but a bruise, a stretch of mangrove shore where the black water met the grey sky in a permanent argument. He was a border...
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