The Distant Nightmare
Concetta Nicosi had served as the night watchman at the Porta San Lorenzo for twenty-two years, a tenure that had worn the rough wool of her uniform into a soft, grey pelt against her skin, and she knew the exact pitch of the iron key in her pocket, a sound that had long since ceased to be an object and become a part of her own skeletal structure. The afternoon thunder rolled in from the Tiber,...
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