The Wistful Witness
Crescencio Domínguez was forty-two when the record was altered, a fact etched in the ink of the strike fund ledger that crossed our family like a debt we could not pay. The thaw had rotted the roads into a slurry of mud and broken glass, and the lorry outside the night warehouse reversed with a mechanical, endless groan that seemed to have been running since the war began. I sat in the break...
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