The Golden Mirror
Could a man forgive himself if the glass did it for him? Salvador Macías stood in the back room where accounts were kept, the air thick with the dust of the mine’s final care plan. He was forty-two, a senior archivist at the National Museum, or so the title on his badge claimed, though to the board he was merely a custodian of dust. His tenure hung by a thread, frayed by the audit that would...
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