“To mop the sea,” he said. “It’s still red in places.”
He didn’t flinch. He simply produced a small brass key from the hidden fold of his cap and opened the door. ormen oganezov
“You’re late, Ormen,” said the oldest. “To mop the sea,” he said
Inside, there was no mops, no broken microscopes. Instead, a single oil lamp burned on a wooden crate. Around it sat three men: one young, one middle-aged, one old. Their faces were his own—his father’s jaw, his brother’s scarred brow, the son he had buried in a shallow grave near the Alazani River. “To mop the sea