The Wistful Dinner
Anca Ionescu remembered the weight of the knife long before she felt the cold in her right hand, a sensation that had begun three days prior when she tried to shingle the roof at seventy-one of Corvid Lane and found her fingers too stiff to grip the hammer. She was forty-five, a senior archivist in the sealed, timeless archive beneath the caravanserai, where the air was so dry it cracked the...
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