The Pale Circus
Can a man who has spent his life cataloging ghosts still hear the living? The wind-turbine nacelle hummed above the cocoa fields, a sound like a throat clearing, and I sat at my desk in the Ministry of Internal Security, my fingers tracing the third repair patch on my pressure suit. The wet season had not ended in three years; the harbor mud outside was a permanent, slick brown, and the air...
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