The Golden Master
Farhad Hassani counted the rivets. It was a habit born of duty, a way to keep the hands from trembling when the mind was too full. He stood at the edge of the unfinished span, the iron cold against his palm, watching the mist rise off the river like a breath held too long. Below, in the barracks of straw pallets where the workers slept, the grey October light had already begun its slow,...
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