The Faded Frontier
The border line cut the valley like a seam in bad cloth, stitching together the terraced hills of Transylvania where the land was scarred by old landslides and the air tasted of wet iron. In the displaced persons center, a long stone building with a tin roof that leaked in the corners, the work was a rhythm of scrubbing, boiling, and hanging. I was Anca Grigoryan, the asylum laundress, though...
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