The Golden Circuit
The Alentejo heat pressed down on the cork oaks, turning the air into a thick, golden haze that settled over the border town of Vilar de Peres. It was a place where two currencies flowed like blood through a wounded limb, and the silence of the fields was broken only by the distant, rhythmic thud of a tractor turning over dry earth. In this quiet, Conceicao Almeida sat in the narrow, rented...
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