The Faded Dust
My hands were black with grease when I finally stopped, the wrench still tight against the valve wheel of the lighthouse’s lower intake. The engine room of the island’s new administrative complex hummed beneath my feet, a low, constant thrum that I had mistaken for my own pulse for the last three years. I am Kostas Stefanou, thirty-four, and my lungs had begun to taste of rust before the rain...
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