The Pale Letter
I The sugar town of Matanzas moved under the weight of its own credit, a machinery of debt and rot that ground the bones of the living. Isandro Zepeda, forty-two, stood at the edge of the parish registry office, his hands trembling not from cold but from the specific, grinding pain of a man who has carried a heavy load for too long. He was the quarantine guard, off duty, though the weight of...
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