The Faded Frontier
Could a man be erased while still breathing? The ink on the ledger was wet. It had been wet for six years, ever since the night the granaries burned and the silence fell so thick it pressed against the eardrums like a physical weight. Dolores Pelayo ran her thumb over the entry for the 1998 Purge, the wool of her sleeve rubbing the dampness into her skin. The stain was brown, the color of old...
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