The Distant Nightmare
The border town of Saint-Éloi sat in the hollow of a dead volcano, its streets paved with grey stone that wore thin under the hooves of mules and the wheels of carts carrying salted fish from the coast. It was a place where two languages bled into one another, a provincial airport of a world that had no such thing, where the wind moved through the empty fields with a dry, mechanical hiss, like...
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