The Wistful Silence
The oil derricks along the bayou hissed against the haze, a rhythmic grinding that marked the time for the town of St. Eustace. Franca Trapani sat at her desk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the linoleum peeling under her chair, watching the clock tick toward the end of her shift. She held a small, polished bone in her pocket, a relic from her late mother, its surface smooth as river...
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