The Wistful Show
Who can hold a line against a fog that speaks in the voices of the dead? I. The smell of damp wool and burnt tallow hung heavy in the reclamation yard, a stench that clung to the teeth before the eyes could focus on the rusted husks of the old looms. Mi-kyung Shin stood at the edge of the canal, her hands clasped tight against the cold, watching the eastern district dissolve into a white,...
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