The Pale Path
Act I Min-jun Jung would remember the sound of the ferry engine dying before the silence that followed, a hollow thud that stopped the rain from hitting the hull, and he knew then, standing in the grey queue at ninety-six of NineElm Crossing, that his left knee had locked for good. He was forty-five, a border warden in name only, though his trade was setting type for the last shift of the local...
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