The Wistful Skyline
Chaiya Kaewkla was thirty-two years old and owed the temple four hundred baht for a loan that had no interest but carried the weight of a funeral shroud. I sat on the edge of the magistrate’s stone bench, the damp seeping through my trousers, while the clerk, a thin man named Somchai, looked at his ledger and then at me with the bored patience of a dog watching a fly. The fee for the residency...
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