The Wistful Witness
Guodong Wu’s fingers were already stained with the black ink of the registry, the nib scratching against the brittle washi paper as he copied the name of a dead farmer into the column for debts owed to the temple granary. The air in the archive was thick, not with dust, but with the heavy, cloying scent of damp wood and the faint, metallic tang of the winter chill that seeped through the cracks...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews