The Faded Root
The ferry crossing at the mouth of the river was a churn of mud and iron, the water so grey it seemed to drink the light before it could reach the shore. On the opposite bank, the town of San Miguel de la Plata huddled under the weight of a plateau wind that stripped the color from the larches and rattled the shutters of the Municipal Bureau. Concepcion Serrano stood on the jetty, her fingers...
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