The Wistful Incense
The interior plain of Anatolia stretched out under a high summer sky, a lake district of stranded boats where the heat shimmered off the asphalt like a broken screen. In the municipal office on the edge of this dry expanse, Meryem Erdogan sat at her desk, the smell of stale coffee and dust settling over the linoleum floor. She had just woken from the dream again, the one where the town’s...
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