The Pale Tower
Chapter One Ibrahim Mansour, thirty-two, junior archivist, was standing in the restricted vault with the taste of dust and old paper on his tongue, holding a model of a pale tower that my father had sworn was a myth. The air in the vault was cold, a damp chill that seeped into the bones, contrasting sharply with the heat of the street outside where the grey October sky hung low and heavy over...
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