The Pale Garden
What does a man owe a ghost he has already buried? Salvador Fuentes stood in the shadow of the crypt, his fingers trembling around the iron gate, the metal cold and slick with the damp of the Brazilian sertão. He was thirty-two, though the drought had aged him into a man of forty, his skin stretched tight over cheekbones that seemed to cut the air. The fog that had paralyzed the port for three...
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