The Distant Blade
The fracture line in the central column was not a crack, Enzo Esposito told the room, but a conversation that had gone on too long. He stood in the dim, dusty atrium of the municipal archive, his hand resting on the cold stone, feeling the subtle vibration of the city’s traffic humming up through the floorboards. The dust settled on his shoulders like ash, a fine grey powder that coated his...
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