The Pale Bridge
"You are late again, Hanako." The voice of Captain Sato came from behind the low wooden screen, dry and brittle as the dried kelp hanging in the corner. I stood in the temple infirmary, the air heavy with camphor and wet wool, my hands trembling slightly as I held the fish-spear of split bone that had been my father’s tool for forty years. The spear was old, the bone worn smooth by generations...
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