The Pale Dance
Act I Do you remember the weight of a line that refuses to be drawn? Fernando Hinojosa stood before the parchment, his quill trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of his boarding house, but from the sudden, violent awareness that his hand was no longer entirely his own. The ink, a black soot mixed with iron gall, did not dry; instead, it wept, bleeding into the pores...
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