The Pale Door
The harbor in November ran warm, a stagnant heat that settled into the pores of the shophouse walls and the grain of the teak floors. Rahim Saputra woke with the taste of salt on his lips and the image of the pale door fixed behind his eyes, a shimmering barrier that marked the edge of his district, impassable and absolute. He was thirty-two, a city guard, and the High Council had sealed his...
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