The Pale Tower
Karim Rustom, forty-five years old and the last sexton of the St. Jude’s parish, woke to the sound of sewing machines in relay, a rhythmic thrum that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards of his small apartment above the archive. The morning fog was burning off, a physical fact of the day that meant the streets would be clear by ten, but inside the room, the air felt thick with the wool...
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