The Golden Song
Arsalan Malik, a goldsmith of thirty-two years in Lahore, stood before the governor’s son with a chalice in his hands that cost more than his father’s funeral. The boy, barely twenty, pointed a manicured finger at the vessel and declared it cursed, a prejudice rooted in the uncanny fact that Arsalan’s late father’s voice occasionally echoed from the cooling forge. Arsalan had hidden this...
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