Bajó mientras una luz fría me segaba. Podía oler a tomillo y hierbabuena fresca. Allí estaba. Un rojo púrpura había sido derramado sobre su piel, blanca como una hoja de papel manchada por café. Sangre. Sangraba como uno de nosotros. ¿Qué podía hacer?
Lo lamentamos. No hay nada que mostrar aún.
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