The Golden Master
Act I Xochitl Quintero remembered the cold before the heat, a specific, biting chill that settled in the marrow of her left arm, mirroring the scar she had hidden under her sleeve for twelve years. She had stood in the center of the restoration bay, the air thick with the dry, preserved scent of old cotton and dust, waiting for the static to rise from the fabric of the Golden Master gown. The...
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