The Pale Garden
Act I I write this from the shadow of the broken arm, the votive figure sitting on the windowsill of the chariot maker’s yard, its clay face turned toward the orange groves that stand in quarantine outside the village. I am Sanjay Banerjee, and I am thirty-four years old, a bridge carpenter who has spent his life measuring the span of things, yet I find myself unable to measure the distance...
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