The Pale Tale
Did you think the water could wash it clean? Meena Siddiqui stood in the mud of the border wall work site, the rain hammering the back of her neck, holding a pale willow branch that refused to dry. The branch pulsed with a faint, cold light, a domestic uncanny thing that she had picked up from the riverbank that morning because it felt right in her hand, or so she told herself, though the truth...
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