The Pale Tale
Do you know the taste of a life that is not yet finished? I have been asking myself this for three months, since the frost first bit into the olive groves and the rain finally filled the dry wells, turning the dust into a mud that clung to my boots like a debt. I am Pilar Herrera. I am thirty-four years old, and I am a chemist who cannot hold a glass steady. My hands shake with a palsy that I...
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