The Pale Altar
The van sat in the driveway of one hundred and nine of the Ferry Slip, its engine ticking as it cooled, a sound that Sirkka Laitinen had come to associate with the weight of her own failure. She remembered the drive up from the coast, the way the landscape had shifted from the flat, salt-tinged plains of the aftermath to the deep, silent pine forests of the inland parish, a transition that felt...
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