
The White Rose
Garima Adhikari The sun does not rise in Vyborg. At least not in the way it used to. It merely bleeds through the smoke– an anemic smear through the soot-stained clouds. The air in Vyborg is heavy too, with silence deeper than the sunken eyeballs of the ordinary. The clatters of boots on frostbitten cobblestones echo on narrow alleyways, mingling with the hiss of boiling stew and sobs of children
























