The Faded Bouquet
Ali Naderi held a lapsed commercial license in his breast pocket, a paper weight that cost him nothing but kept his hands trembling as he stepped off the barge onto the shipbreaker’s beach. The year was 1947, and the humidity in the air was so heavy it felt like breathing through wet wool, swelling the wood of the piling until it groaned under the strain. He was thirty-two, a scholar of...
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