The Wistful Throne
The estero water rose against the concrete pilings of the Ministry of Records, a slow, black tide that smelled of rot and diesel. The air hung with the haze of fires burning somewhere in the province, a yellow dust that coated the back of the throat and made the light look sick. Imelda Bautista stood by the window, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass, watching the reflection of...
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