The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara)
“Cámara walked in, expecting to be the first visitor of the day, but already an elderly woman wearing a black skirt, black stockings and shoes, black woollen jacket pulled over her black blouse and a black scarf wrapped around the back of her short grey hair, was shuffling past the cypress trees. She had a yellow plastic shopping bag in one hand and a bunch of white flowers in the other.
He checked the time on his phone: he had a few minutes.
The path took him down the central avenue before narr...owing and veering to the left. It was breezy, and he pulled his coat around him more tightly, hunching his shoulders against the cold of autumn.
Two, perhaps three years had passed since he’d last been here. Hilario had never been one for encouraging regular visits, but he wasn’t going to ban them either. Not that banning was something he did, but he’d made it clear that self-pity or wallowing in negative emotion of any kind was looked down on.
Remember, yes. But allow space for forgetting as well.MoreLess
He checked the time on his phone: he had a few minutes.
The path took him down the central avenue before narr...owing and veering to the left. It was breezy, and he pulled his coat around him more tightly, hunching his shoulders against the cold of autumn.
Two, perhaps three years had passed since he’d last been here. Hilario had never been one for encouraging regular visits, but he wasn’t going to ban them either. Not that banning was something he did, but he’d made it clear that self-pity or wallowing in negative emotion of any kind was looked down on.
Remember, yes. But allow space for forgetting as well.MoreLess
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