The Wistful Saga
Salvador Orozco had spent fourteen years counting the weight of other people’s grief, a task that required a steady hand and a steady silence, both of which were currently failing him. The air in the basement archive of the San Juan Botanical Society tasted of burnt sugar, a cloying, sweet rot that clung to the back of his throat and refused to wash away. He was not a man given to superstition,...
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