The Pale Bridge
Act I The sugar island churned in the wet heat, the cane rows standing like grey sentinels along the abandoned canal where the willows locked the sky in a tight, suffocating embrace. Manette Reaux stood on the pale concrete bridge, the wind shifting to bring the damp smell of rotting cane and the distant, hollow toll of the school bell across the valley, a sound that marked the hours she had no...
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