The Distant Nightmare
Who would steal the moon from a man’s pocket? The question hung in the air of the staff canteen, sharp as a knife blade, before Budi bin Hassan could answer. The broken jukebox in the corner had been silent for three days, its needle stuck in the groove of a waltz that no longer existed, and the silence made every other sound louder. Budi stood by the counter, his hands stained with the black...
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