The Pale Door
Dolores Villaseñor is the bridge carpenter of this pueblo, and the debt due to the capital falls on the first of the month, a fact that sits in my chest like a stone I cannot spit out. I stand in the gilded, decaying throne room of the modernist palace, the air thick with the dust of abandoned terraces, clutching my mother’s shattered jade hairpin, which I have searched for across the market...
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