The Wistful Voyage
Act I The sugar mill at Santa Clara stood against the horizon like a broken tooth, its rusted machinery silent under the heavy haze that swallowed the far shore and turned the bay into a rumor. The town moved in slow, syrupy rhythms, the air heavy with molasses and wet limestone, and everywhere the walls were shared, thin partitions that let the heat of one household bleed into the next. Imelda...
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