The Pale Echo
Francisco Pinto is a scribe of no particular fame, thirty-two years old, with ink permanently stained into the whorls of his fingerprints, and I am currently hiding in the cellar of a failing match factory on the Porto docks, listening to the silence where a voice used to be. The sirocco has been blowing for three days, a dry, scouring wind that has left the whole city with dry throats and...
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