The Wistful Show
Juma Tesfaye, thirty-two, scribe of the river quarter, held the obsidian mirror in his hands while the heat shimmered off the badlands, turning the air into a liquid that refused to hold its shape. The mirror was shattered, a constellation of black glass that whispered of blood, and his sister, Hana, lay in the next room wasting away, her breath shallow as a dying mule. I had trusted Kaleb, my...
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