The Wistful Skyline
The account left open, as the ledger showed, was not a matter of money but of bone. Antonio Figueira sat in the damp courtyard of the inn at Beja, the rain hammering the thatch above him with a rhythmic, mechanical persistence that sounded like the counting room of a merchant house where he had once held a pen. He clutched the cracked ceramic bowl to his chest, its surface cool and vibrating...
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