The Faded Guest
The ministry’s glass walls did not reflect the sky, only the fluorescent hum of the capital’s bureaucracy. Inside that sterile light, Mohammad Yousefi stood before the evidence locker, his hand hovering over the cracked porcelain cup that General Rostam demanded returned to the display case. It was a relic from the war, yes, but it was also a trap, a shard of ceramic that held the weight of a...
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