The Pale Altar
I Crescencio Solórzano had thirty-four years of service recorded in the Bureau’s ledger, a fact that meant nothing to the clerk who stamped his pension application with a red ink error code. The office smelled of wet wool and machine oil, the air thick with the hum of the ventilation fans that never quite cleared the salt mist rolling in from the delta. He stood before the one-way glass, his...
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