The Faded Frequency
Chapter One The air in the waiting room tasted of copper and old dust, a flavor that coated the back of Marisol Beltrán’s throat and refused to wash away. I had been sitting on the plastic chair for three hours, my knees aching from the dampness that seeped through the linoleum, while the fluorescent lights buzzed with a sound like a trapped fly. My mother, Doña Elena, sat opposite me, her...
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