Ese lugar donde el olor a grano tostado se mezclaba con nuestras confesiones. No era el más elegante, pero las paredes descascaradas escucharon planes que el mundo aún no conoce.
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I was seven. My cousin Lucía was nine. The adults were watching a telenovela at full volume, the kind where someone was always dying or coming back from the dead. Lucía pulled me by the wrist and whispered, “Ven.” We crawled behind the worn floral sofa, our backs against the cold wall, our knees touching. Dust motes floated in the orange light of the floor lamp. Todos los lugares que mantuvimos en secreto - I...