The Faded Photograph
"Put that away before the inspector sees it." Taro Kondo did not look up from the loom, his hands moving with the mechanical precision of a man who had long since ceased to feel the weight of the shuttle. He was forty-two, a master weaver in the shitamachi district, where the air smelled of damp wool and the distant, metallic tang of the closing mines. The workshop was a cube of silence, broken...
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