The Distant Promise
Chapter One The weight of a lie is not measured in ounces, but in the friction it creates against the skin of the day. I am Nune Sargsyan, thirty-two, and I have spent the last decade in the obsidian halls of Khor Virap, a place that feels less like a monastery and more like a lung held in a permanent, suffocating inhale. We are not truly in the Middle Ages here, though the light of these short...
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