The Faded Sutra
The housing estate on the edge of the city hummed with the low, electric thrum of industry, a sound that vibrated in the teeth of anyone who walked the perimeter where the dry flood-control channel met the asphalt. Here, the Great Migration north had settled into a permanent, clogged silence, the kind that gathers in the ears after a long shift in a kitchen that never cools. Faye Yancey stood...
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