The Golden Mirror
Osman Koc, forty years old and a man who had sold his fishing license for a crate of dried figs, stood before the iron gate of the Koc estate, the weight of the dead man’s toll ledger pressing against his ribs like a second, heavier heart. The winter roads were closed, a fact that had trapped him in this district for three weeks, and the gritters had long since passed, leaving the cobbles slick...
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