see her, he began to leave his office door open.
One day a box of colors appeared.
Then, books
children.
Later, a small table.
I pretended not to notice.
He pretended that all of that had appeared by chance.
For weeks I thought that perhaps I had misjudged Vicente.
Until one afternoon in October.
She was cleaning a shelf behind her desk when an old book slid off.
Behind it was a photograph.
I picked her up.
And I felt the air disappear from the room.
Vicente looked much younger
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