The Golden Cellar
Miguel Molina stood in the doorway of the storeroom, the salt of the Andalusian shore still drying in the crevices of his palms, and remembered the look on his father’s face the last time they had spoken. It was a look of absolute defeat, a surrender that had cost them everything, from the mule to the dignity of their name. He was forty-five, a customs officer who had spent two decades guarding...
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