The Wistful Ashes
"You’re late, Lupita. The mule is bleeding out on the quay, and you’re still polishing your badge." Lupita Solórzano did not turn to face the man. She kept her gaze fixed on the salt pans, where the white crust cracked under the weight of the sudden, overnight frost that had seized the air. The cold was a physical thing, a hammer that had arrived without warning, turning the wet mud of the...
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