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the cemetery trees.
The morning was quiet. The air smelled of rain and stone.
He stopped in front of the gravestone and looked up at me.
“Was Dad brave?”
I smiled through tears.
“He was,” I answered softly. “But more than anything, he loved you.”
My son looked at the name carved into the stone.
Julián Mendoza.
The name he carried.
The name others had tried continue reading …
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