The Wistful Skyline
Act I The olive groves of Andalusia stood like silent sentinels under the dry season sun, their silver leaves trembling in the heat that baked the harbor mud at low tide into cracked plates. I am Rafael Uribe, a salt official for the imperial administration, and I stood at the edge of the night market, my hand resting on the iron gate, feeling the heat radiate through the metal into my palm....
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