The Wistful Mountain
"Entry 44: Raw silk, Grade A, 12 bales. Supplier: Truong Van. Due date: Sunday, before the border closes." I wrote the line in the ledger, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper because my hand trembled. It was a small tremor, barely a flicker, but it was there, and it was growing. I am Văn Hang, thirty-two, a merchant in the counting room of the old house on the delta. The room smells of...
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