The Pale Bridge
The olive groves of the Andalusian belt stretch out like a bruise under the winter sun, a vast, silent expanse where the cypress knees rise from the damp earth like the bones of drowned men. In the town of Lucena, the air is heavy with drying leaves and the low, constant hum of diesel engines idling in the back lots of the repair shops. It is a place where marriages are fixed in garages with...
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