That summer became a blurred montage of gold and blue. Mateo taught me that silence wasn't empty; it was full of the sound of cicadas and the distant thrum of the town’s Friday night markets. We spent afternoons delivering jars of honey to the mountain hotels in his beat-up yellow Jeep, the wind whipping my hair into a bird’s nest.
—El próximo verano, sí. Y si no, buscaré la manera de que los veranos sean más largos.
