The Wistful Voyage
The Alfama district held its breath under the sun, the light hitting the whitewashed walls after nine days of relentless rain. The streets were dry now, the puddles evaporated into a fine, dusty haze that coated the cobblestones in a pale film. I stood at the top of the steep steps, watching the tourists climb, their breath coming short in the thick, damp air that still clung to the stone. I am...
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