The Wistful Ashes
Alentejo, in the dry season, is a landscape that shrinks, the cork oaks standing like grey sentinels over fields of wheat that have turned to dust under the sun, and in this town of two languages where the bridge toll has just doubled, Afonso Yanes stood before the rusted iron gates of the Municipal Boundary Maintenance Bureau, his hands trembling as he checked the tension on the primary hinge....
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