The Golden Harbor
The salt trade moved through the delta like a slow, gray vein, carrying the weight of the distant capital’s taxes into the mud of our lives. I was Thị Yen, a midwife whose hands knew the shape of a spine better than a prayer, and I stood at the edge of the pleasure quarter where the curfew bells had stopped ringing hours ago. The fog was thick, eating the sound of the water against the pilings,...
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