The Distant Temple
The fog in the olive belt did not lift; it thickened, a wet wool drawn tight against the skin. Francisco Nogales, forty-two, stood before the crumbling altar of the Distant Temple, his hand resting on the cold, gritty stone. He was a scholar of temple acoustics, a title that meant nothing to the landlord who had posted the eviction notice on the door of his cramped room above the kilns. The...
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