The Pale Path
The valley market town of Oaxaca hummed with the low, grinding friction of commerce, a sound like sand rubbed between dry palms, rising from the terraced slopes where the sky stretched wide and flat as a sheet of hammered tin. In the shadow of the sealed temple granary, where the air smelled perpetually of damp wool and stale woodsmoke, Reyna Guzmán moved through the archive with the stiff,...
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