The Wistful Petal
Chapter One The reclamation yard in the St Petersburg courtyards hummed with the low, metallic groan of dead machines being sorted for scrap, a sound that vibrated in the teeth of every worker who stood near the sorting line. Andrei Fedorov, forty-five years old and wearing the heavy wool coat of a cross-border trucker, stood by the rusted gate where the mud had begun to whisper his name in a...
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