The Pale Letter
"Stop grinding it, Talha. You’re going to break the mortar." The sound of the pestle against the stone was a dull, rhythmic thud that matched the beating in my temples. I did not look up. The powder was pale, almost white, and it smelled of damp earth and old iron. I was thirty years old, but my hands shook like those of an old man. In the cellar of the bazaar, the air was heavy with rotting...
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