The Distant Summer
The question that has eaten through me since the first light hit the dust is whether a house can hold a lie, or if the lie is only in the hands that built it. I am Vimala Chatterjee, and I have spent the last three years in the municipal archives, cataloguing the rot of this city while trying to keep one specific rot from spreading. My brother, Arjun, died in the winter, leaving behind a desk...
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