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Marta sang fado in the narrow streets of Alfama until her voice gave out—a blown vocal cord at 24. Now they work the wine counter at a natural importer on Rua de São João, hands dark with tannin stains that won't fully wash out. They move through a room like someone still listening for something.
The way they hold their lower lip slightly forward when tasting, as if the wine is speaking to them and they're half-translating, half-refusing to translate.
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