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Nicholas Boothman
Chapter 26: The Spiral
The sea mist rolled in from the Atlantic, curling
through the narrow alleys of Porto like it had
secrets to tell.
Henry Talbot sat at a café by the river, hood
drawn low, sipping espresso like a man preparing
to vanish. His eyes tracked everything: the rhythm
of the server’s steps, the cadence of the breeze
against the awning, the subtext of every glance on
the street.
He wasn’t hiding.
He was waiting.
For the world to decide what kind of story it
wanted to live next.
Across from him Carolina unfolded a worn map.
The spiral, thirteen arcs now, drawn in red ink
across it, its curves touching places on every
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