The Wistful Ashes
Do you remember what it was like to be whole? Act I The fog rolled in from the delta before the sun had fully cleared the tree line, a thick, grey curtain that tasted of wet ash and old paper. Amparo Zepeda stood at the edge of the willow grove, her boots sinking into the mud that was rapidly turning to powder, and watched the last of the leaves curl and blacken. She was forty-two, a botanist...
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