The Wistful Mountain
Thị Binh was thirty-two years old, held a post as a botanist for the colonial railway, and owed the bank a sum that would eat her inheritance whole. She worked in a shed at the end of the line, a place that smelled of wet chalk and rotting paper, where the ghost-orchid grew in a pot of black soil. The plant was strange, a thing of pale, translucent veins that did not reflect the light but...
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