The Distant Affair
The smell of the courtyard was always of wet stone and the faint, sweet rot of apricots left too long on the tree, a scent that had seeped into the weave of my clothes until I could no longer tell where the air ended and my skin began. I remember the weight of the glass in my hand, the way it caught the last of the winter light, and I remember that I was not looking at Zoya, but at the ash...
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