The Pale Door
The name Aurelio Zepeda was written in red ink on the tax ledger, a debt of forty silver pesos for wool that had not been graded, and I stood before the Pale Door with the weight of that ledger in my gut. The door was a slab of obsidian, cold and dry, set into the wall of the court where the kilns burned, and it absorbed the light from the oil lamps until the room felt like a throat swallowing...
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