The Wistful Dinner
Act I Can a dead man’s name hold the weight of a living woman’s life? I asked the clerk, but he did not look up from his ledger, his pen scratching a rhythm that felt like the grinding of millstones against my bones. I am Mercedes Zuniga, forty-two, and I stood before the counter of the Municipal Archive in Vespera, the industrial city where the smoke never quite cleared, holding a petition for...
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