The Wistful Skyline
I was halfway through grinding the glass dust into a fine powder when the tapping started, a rhythmic, hollow knock that seemed to come from the walls themselves. It was the sound of fingernails against iron, steady as a metronome, though my brother Mateo was three miles away in the debt prison. I did not look up from the mortar; I kept my eyes on the gritty texture of the sand, knowing that to...
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