The Wistful Silence
Chapter One A man’s worth is measured by the weight he can carry without breaking. I write this in the small hours, the candle guttering in the draft from the window, where the sky over the hill towns promises rain but withholds it, leaving the air thick and still as held breath. I am Salvatore Gentile, and I am thirty years old, though my hands feel older, worn down to the bone by the linotype...
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