The Wistful Ashes
Chapter One Dolores Bermejo’s hands were black with soot as she scrubbed the final stain from the brass plate, the metal screaming under the wire brush. The water in the basin was ice-cold, numbing her fingertips, a sharp contrast to the dry heat of the olive grove pressing against the temple walls outside. She did not look up when the door creaked. She knew the weight of the footsteps before...
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