The Pale Meridian
"Put the weights down, Santiago. The scales are short again." Santiago Jarama did not move his hands, which were trembling not from fear but from the cold that had settled in his knuckles since the dream. He stood in the boiler room of the municipal archive, where the pipes groaned with the pressure of the city’s history, and looked at his supervisor, Don Fermín, who stood by the door with his...
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