The Pale Echo
The dust in this country has a weight to it, a gritty persistence that settles into the creases of the skin and the hinges of doors, as if the air itself were being ground down to powder by the wind off the sea. I was twelve years old when the debt came for us, a lawsuit that ate the farm like a rat gnawing the roots, leaving only the stone walls and the memory of what had been grown there. My...
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