The Faded Chronicle
Act I The valley market moved with the heavy, rhythmic churn of a machine that never stopped, a grinding of gears and voices that echoed off the dry clay walls of the Oaxacan town. Ferries waited in the rain, their hulls slick and black, while the dry wind cracked the earth beneath the boots of those who had nowhere else to go. Isandro Zamudio stood in the queue, his hands buried in the pockets...
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