The Faded Shield
The sugar cane fields stretched out like a green sea under the low Georgian sky, the air heavy with burning stalks and diesel, a scent that clung to the clothes of every worker in the town of San Cristóbal. In the shadow of the old mill, where the machinery had long since rusted into silence, Fernando Talamantes walked the perimeter of the archive, his boots crunching on the gravel that marked...
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