PREVIEW
... some pages were inked in blood, others in silence.
And many had never been allowed to write their lines at all.
The clock on Place Bellecour struck eleven.
Around it, couples gathered beneath their scarves, clutching wine bottles and each other.
Laughter rang out.
Some danced.
Others smoked and watched the old year die.
An older woman, hunched beneath a wool shawl, muttered, "Let the new year bring us something softer."
A young man ...
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