The Pale Shadows
Who can carry the weight of a dead man’s honor without breaking under the strain of the living? Francisco Figueroa, twelve years old and stained to the elbow with the indigo of his father’s trade, stood at the threshold of the watchtower where the olive groves gave way to the stone. In his hands, he clutched a sash of red wool, stiff with dried blood, a relic from the night his father had been...
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