The Pale Banner
The ink had a weight to it, heavier than water, colder than stone, and Jose Jarama remembered the feeling of it drying on his fingers long after the fact, a sensation that clung to the skin like a second layer of flesh. He had told the Archivist, in the beginning, that the Pale Banner was not a curse but a wound, a tear in the fabric of the city’s history that required mending rather than fear,...
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