The Faded Sutra
The soot of Chiang Mai settled on the roofs of the pleasure quarter, a grey blanket over the red tiles, while the coal cellars swallowed the last of the melting snow. Orapin Sriuthis stood at the gate of the estate, his hands raw from the cold and the weight of the bronze mirror he carried in his satchel. He was thirty, a constable whose uniform had faded to the color of old tea, and he wanted...
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