The Faded Chronicle
The ink bled into the parchment before Jose Gallardo could pull the brush away. He scrubbed the stain with a rag that had once been a shirt, the wool grader’s trade still clinging to his fingers like dried sap. The mirror on the shelf, polished to a dull duty, reflected a hand that did not move when his did. It was a trick of the light, he told himself, though the light in the high-altitude...
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