The Wistful Ashes
Act I The air in Varkaus tasted of iron and burnt pine, a flavor that stuck to the back of the throat like a coin swallowed by accident. Pentti Makela stood at the edge of the central ash pile, the heat radiating against his face, while the February false spring lay flat and deceptive on the slate hills beyond the city limits. He was thirty-two, an archivist of minor rank, and his mother’s...
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