The Pale Echo
The wind off the Sea of Japan does not care for the borders drawn on paper. It sweeps across the moor, flattening the tall grass against the frozen earth, and carries the salt spray of the offshore wind farms all the way to the door of the video store on one hundred and nine of Stonecutter Alley. I am Riku Kondo, twelve years old, and I am holding a gym membership card that expired last winter....
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