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31.08.2026, 17:17
The man with the bronze face turned around. His eyes, black and dry as sun-cured olives, met her gaze, piercing right through her, through the thickness of centuries and someone else’s memory. “Run!” his cry tore through the ringing midday silence of the square, like tearing thick silk. “Tamar! Run!” And she ran. The narrow streets, squeezed by white limestone, rushed to meet her. The air burned her throat, smelling of fermented honey and overripe figs that burst beneath her bare feet
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