The Golden Visit
Zoran Stancev remembered the dream with the clarity of a wound that refuses to close, a golden river running down the center of the boulevard where the oyster shells used to be, and he woke to the sound of machine oil being poured through a funnel in the workshop below, the liquid hiss filling the loft where the light was still the pale gray of pre-dawn. He was forty-five, an oyster warden by...
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