The Distant Temple
The debt of transport is a weight you carry before you lift the first crate, and by the time the ferry’s engines groaned at slack, seventeen of the Tide Clock had already marked the hours I spent staring at the bronze razor my father left me, its edge dull from years of unused heirloom status. I am Roisin Nolan, and I am a letter carrier in the Burren, a stone country where the mud tastes of...
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