The Distant Metropolis
The first grain of white root powder fell into the brass mortar with a sound like a single tear hitting stone. You counted the grains, one, two, three, your breath held tight in your chest, watching the dust settle in the shallow bowl of the mortar. You were fifty-three years old, Elias, and the winter solstice was three days away, yet your hands trembled so violently that the third grain...
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