A veces soy como el viento
o como las hojas que arrastra.
A veces soy como el cielo
o como las estrellas.
A veces soy como el jabalí
o como la raíz
que no se deja arrancar
A veces soy como el lobo
o como la oveja.
A veces vivo en ti
otras veces lejos de ti.
Duermo bajo el mismo cielo
que sueñan los cipreses.
En la fuente bebo agua
del amanecer
y me transformo
en las cosas comunes
A veces soy la letra
que queda aquí impresa.
mvf
Father Avellana was named Genebrando and came from a humble family of farmers from Medina del Campo, or so it was said. They had given him that nickname due to his dark complexion and his shaved, round head, which remained inclined over a black-covered book while swaying gently to the rhythm of the train's clattering.
The station was on the outskirts of the town, and upon arrival, they got off the truck. The driver said a quick goodbye and left.
On the walls of the lobby, inside the station, there were large murals of peasants, representing Galician men and women, strong and corpulent, oblivious to the famine and misery of the land. It was disconcerting to understand what reason they could have for taking the train and leaving their homes. The father approached the ticket window queue, and when it was his turn, he pulled out his old leather wallet from a pocket in his cassock and requested two tickets: one for an adult and another at a reduced price for a child. After receiving the change and the tickets that came out through the window, they went out to the platform. The sun still showed its reluctance, hiding behind the clouds. Although the day was progressing, the morning remained cold and misty. They sat on one of the empty benches on the platform to wait.
On one of the tracks, a train awaited while water was loaded into its black locomotive, which occasionally released steam with a loud whistle under its imposing black belly, showing its impatience. On the platform, men with wooden suitcases, accompanied by their wives or family members, said their goodbyes, many of them heading to distant destinations. Some solitary travelers, impatient for their train's arrival, wandered back and forth along the station.
After a while, the train they were going to travel in entered the station platform and stopped with a sharp squeal of its huge iron wheels on the tracks. The wagon doors opened, and travelers who had reached their destination began to disembark with their belongings, while those departing waited to board.
Sisa and Father Avellana gathered their things and headed to one of the train cars. At the entrance to the car, people crowded in front of the door saying their goodbyes to their family members before departing. They passed through them and boarded the train. Once inside, they walked along the narrow aisle of the car, squeezed among people looking out the windows either to talk to someone outside or to observe another station in their journey, until they found an empty compartment and entered. Father placed Sisa's suitcase on the luggage rack above the rubber seats in the train compartment, and then they sat down.
Sisa let his feet hang while sitting on the bluish-gray rubber.
"Passengers on the train!" - was heard from outside, followed by a whistle. Travelers taking advantage of the last minutes by the car door, saying their goodbyes to their family members, hurried to board. The locomotive began to puff, releasing long jets of steam from the sides, and the cars, after a few tense seconds, started moving. Suddenly, everything came to life: people on the platform seemed to be running, the bookstore where newspapers were sold, the canteen, the station entrance door, the village houses... in the end, only a few iron rails were left behind by the locomotive as it moved away, leaving one world to enter another where Sisa's mother awaited him.
Turning his gaze back inside the car, Sisa noticed that a tab of blue paper protruded among the pages of one of his notebooks, which he kept in a leather bundle. He pulled it, and in his hand was a rectangle of blue paper: it was the ticket awarded at the school festival, which had wanted a mocking fate that he couldn't find to claim his prize. Ah... he sighed sadly. He held it up in the air, extending his right arm to show it to the world. Father Avellana raised his eyes from the book to look at Sisa. Seeing the number, 101 in black ink on the ticket, he understood what it was. He shrugged and returned to his reading.
Time, with its seconds in the form of pines, flowed through the window glass of the train compartment while, as the train passed, a silent and changing world displayed its semblances in the form of landscapes.
Sisa raised his ticket even higher, as a sign of triumph for having found it, albeit late, and placed it in front of the ceiling lamp that remained hidden behind it, as if a rectangular planet eclipsed the sun. For a moment, he contemplated the bluish eclipse of the paper under the light of the electric star on the train's ceiling until his hand turned to lower slowly, simulating with the ticket the glide of a propeller plane starting its descent from the sky.
He was the aviator making the plane spin in the air to chase the enemy plane with the bullets from his machine guns. Fiuuuuuu. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta... He would have stood up if it weren't for the father's gaze, who again raised his eyes with a reproachful look. He turned towards the corner of the car and continued more quickly. - Tatattatatatata. The enemy plane, accurately hit by his bullets, began its nosedive in a somersault of smoke, while he, driving his blue rectangle, began his ascent to return to the sky.
The town was oppressed by its exploiters, and Sisa, who had realized it in his child's heart, spun in the air with his plane to chase with the bullets from his machine guns the enemies and the evildoers who robbed the humble and hardworking people. - Tatatttta, tatatatatta...
Once the enemies of the town were defeated, with one or two passes, the plane flew over the liberated fields, and the people, taking advantage of that unexpected moment in their lives when they ceased to be slaves, wiped their foreheads with their sweat-soaked handkerchiefs. Then, with their sweat-soaked handkerchiefs, they saluted the sky to their heroic aviator.
mvf.
Previously, this story was about the train journey.
.
El padre Avellana se llamaba Genebrando y según se decía, provenía de una familia humilde, de campesinos de Medina del Campo. Le habían puesto ese apodo por su tez morena y por la cabeza rapada y redonda, que permanecía inclinada sobre un libro de tapas negras, que se balanceaba suavemente al ritmo del traqueteo del tren.
En una de las vías, un convoy esperaba mientras cargaban agua en su locomotora negra, que de vez en cuando expulsaba vapor con un fuerte silbido bajo su imponente barriga negra, mostrando su impaciencia. En el andén, hombres con maletas de madera, acompañados de sus mujeres o familiares, se despedían, muchos de ellos partiendo hacia destinos lejanos. Algunos viajeros solitarios, impacientes por la llegada de su tren, deambulaban de un lado a otro a lo largo de la estación.
Después de un rato, el tren en el que iban a viajar entró en el andén de la estación y se detuvo con un chirrido agudo de sus enormes ruedas de hierro sobre las vías. Las puertas de los vagones se abrieron, y los viajeros que llegaron a su destino comenzaron a bajar con sus pertenencias, mientras los que partían esperaban para subir.
El Sisa y el padre Avellana recogieron sus cosas y se dirigieron a uno de los vagones del tren. En la entrada del vagón, la gente se agolpaba frente a la puerta despidiéndose de sus familiares antes de partir. Pasaron entre ellos y subieron al tren. Una vez dentro, caminaron por el estrecho pasillo del vagón, apretujados entre las personas que se asomaban por las ventanillas, ya sea para hablar con alguien en el exterior o para observar una estación más en su viaje, hasta que encontraron un compartimento vacío y entraron. El padre colocó la maleta del Sisa en el portaequipajes sobre los asientos de hule del compartimento del vagón, y luego se sentaron.
El Sisa colgaba sus pies mientras estaba sentado en el hule de color azul grisáceo.
¡Pasajeros al tren! - se escuchó desde fuera, seguido de un silbato. Los viajeros que aprovechaban los últimos minutos frente a la puerta del vagón, despidiéndose de sus familiares, se apresuraron a subir. La locomotora comenzó a bufar, soltando largos chorros de vapor por los lados, y los vagones, después de unos tensos segundos, se pusieron en movimiento. De repente, todo cobró vida: la gente en el andén que parecía correr, la librería donde se vendían periódicos, la cantina, la puerta de entrada de la estación, las casas del pueblo... al final, solo quedaron unos raíles de hierro que la locomotora dejaba atrás a medida que avanzaba, saliendo de un mundo para entrar en otro donde la madre del Sisa lo esperaba.
Al volver la vista al interior del vagón, el Sisa notó que sobresalía entre las hojas de uno de sus cuadernos, que llevaba en un atadillo de cuero, una lengüeta de papel azulado. Tiró de ella y en su mano quedó un rectángulo de papel azul: era el boleto premiado en el festival del colegio, que había querido una suerte burlona, que no pudiera encontrar para recoger su premio. ¡Ah...! suspiró con tristeza. Lo levantó en el aire extendiendo su brazo derecho para mostrarlo al mundo. El padre Avellana levantó los ojos del libro para mirar al Sisa. Al ver el número, el 101 con tinta negra en el boleto, entendió lo que era. Se encogió de hombros y volvió a su lectura.
El tiempo, con sus segundos en forma de pinos, discurría por el cristal de la ventanilla del compartimento del tren, mientras al pasar del tren, un mundo silencioso y cambiante mostraba sus semblanzas en forma de paisajes.
El Sisa levantó su boleto aún más alto, como señal de triunfo por haberlo encontrado, aunque tarde, y lo interpuso delante de la lámpara del techo que quedó oculta tras él, como si un planeta rectangular eclipsara el sol. Durante un instante, contempló el eclipse azulado del papel bajo la luz del astro eléctrico del techo del vagón, hasta que su mano giró para bajar lentamente, simulando con el boleto el planeo de una avioneta de hélice que iniciaba su descenso desde el cielo.
Él era el aviador que hacía girar el avión en el aire para perseguir con las balas de sus ametralladoras al avión enemigo.Fiuuuuuu. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta... Se habría levantado si no fuera por la mirada del padre, que de nuevo alzó la vista con mirada de reproche. Se dio la vuelta hacia la esquina del vagón y continuó con más rapidez. - Tatattatatatata. El avión enemigo, certeramente herido por sus balas, iniciaba su caída en picado en una voltereta de humo; mientras él, conduciendo su rectangulito azul, comenzaba su ascenso para regresar hacia el cielo.
El pueblo estaba oprimido por sus explotadores y el Sisa, que se había percatado en su corazón de niño, giraba en el aire con su avioneta para perseguir con las balas de sus ametralladoras a los enemigos y a los malvados que robaban a las gentes humildes y trabajadoras. - Tatatttta, tatatatatta...
Una vez derrotados los enemigos del pueblo, con una o dos pasadas, el avión sobrevoló los campos liberados y la gente, aprovechando ese inesperado momento en sus vidas en que dejaban de ser esclavos, secaba sus frentes. Luego, con sus pañuelos empapados en sudor, saludaban al cielo a su heroico aviador.
mvf.
anteriormente esta historia era. el viaje en tren.
In the early morning, while having breakfast at the Sagrado bar, Quasimodo received a call from the town hall. He brought the phone's receiver to his ear and recognized the voice of the councilwoman, asking him to investigate a robbery that had occurred at the soccer field. He turned off his phone and put it in the back pocket of his pants.
A primera hora de la mañana, mientras desayunaba en el bar de la Sagrado, Quasimodo recibió un llamada del ayuntamiento. Llevó el auricular de su teléfono a la oreja y reconoció la voz de la concejala, pidiéndole que fuera investigar un robo ocurrido en el campo de fútbol. Apagó su teléfono y lo guardó en el bolsillo trasero del pantalón.
Se
levantó para ir a pagar pero se detuvo y pidió un bocadillo de
calamares fritos y otro café, para tomar mientras esperaba a que le
hicieran el bocadillo y terminaba de leer el periódico, y regresó a la
mesa donde estaba sentado. Quasimodo
tenía un oído muy fino, y el entre bromas presumía ante sus amigos que era capaz de distinguir por
el maullido de un animal si era gato, gata u otra cosa y el tono de voz
de la concejala, preguntándole donde estaba no le gustó nada.
- ¿Lo vas comer aquí o es para llevar? - preguntó la joven camarera, desde la barra.
- ¡Para llevar!
-Sabes. Forzaron la puerta del campo de futbol y entraron a robar.
Dijo en voz alta para que le oyera la joven que atendía el bar, que en
esos momentos ya estaba en la pequeña cocina del bar, rebozando en
harina los calamares para freír.
El campo de futbol era una pequeña elevación nivelada por una pala excavadora, al que se llegaba, después andar unos doscientos metros por un camino sin asfaltar, desde una zona de estacionamiento para automóviles. Pasada la medía mañana Quasimodo aparcó su moto de policía y se puso a caminar por el camino de tierra hasta su destino. El perímetro del campo de futbol estaba delimitado por un muro de bloques de hormigón, de una altura de tres metros. El muro solo tenía abierto una ventanilla donde la gente compraba las entradas para los partidos de futbol y una puerta grande metálica, con la altura y la anchura suficiente para permitir la entrada y salida de un camión de bomberos.
Las peculiares dimensiones de la puerta se debían a las objeciones del farmacéutico local, quien, a pesar de su desconocimiento sobre fútbol, poseía experiencia en farmacia y bomberos. Esta última preocupación se originó a raíz de la ayuda a su hijo en la preparación del examen de bomberos, que había comprado un par de días antes. El joven, un individuo golfo y simpático, que no tenía destino en la vida, finalmente aprobó y ahora conduce el coche bomberos de la comarca.
Al llegar al campo de futbol comprobó que la puerta estaba abierta.
Una
vez dentro su vista recorrió el interior, pasó por las gradas de
cemento donde se sentaba el publico, por la hierba verde del campo, que
crecía abundantemente; las porterías, una enfrente de la otra en cada
extremo del campo; y un pequeño edificio donde se ubicaba la tienda donde se vendían las bebidas y los refrescos los días de partido de futbol, y por su parte de atrás el vestuario de los hombres donde se cambiaban para jugar a futbol.
Se dirigió hacia allí. La puerta de la tienda estaba abierta y su interior estaba desordenado. Con unas cajas de bebidas tiradas por el suelo.
En
el interior del caseto se podía ver que quien fuese el ladrón había
hecho un agujero en la uralita del techo para entrar a dentro.
Quasimodo sacó su libreta y su lápiz aerostático, el lápiz salió del
bolsillo de su camisa y descendió para anotar en el blog cuadriculado:
Robo en el bar del campo de fútbol, anotó el día y la hora en que había llegado: nueve y media de la mañana.
Empezó a explorar el local.
- ¡Hum .. !.- No parecía que hubieran desaparecido los refrescos, ni los de naranja ni los de limón, ni las colas, pero había una bolsa abierta de patatas fritas y otra vacía de maíz tostado...
Miró para las estanterías donde se colocaban para su venta, las bolsas de snack: patatas fritas, frutos secos, galletas crujientes ... estaba vacío.
Quasimodo llevó el lápiz a la boca, pensativo.
El
lápiz se separó de la boca y quedó clavado en el aire. Después de unos
momentos de suspense ... parecía que iba a bajar ... tenía la palabra
para escribir en la punta del lápiz pero no pensaba salir. Cuando
decidió bajar escribió: al ladrón no le gustan los refrescos de naranjas
ni las colas, pero se ha llevado del local las bolsas de snacks
El
ladrón entró haciendo un butrón en el techo, había estado en el local, y
después forzó la cerradura de la puerta del local desde dentro para
salir por allí, en vez de por donde había entrado.
El
ladrón muy listo no debía de ser por que había entrado por el techo y
se había tomado su tiempo forzando la cerradura de la puerta para salir
por allí en vez de hacerlo de nuevo por el agujero que ya tenía hecho. Estuvo dando vueltas hasta que resolvió el misterio. faltaba un barril de cerveza.
Cuando salió del local se paseo alrededor del campo del futbol por si encontraba más indicios.
Finalmente regresó al aparcamiento para coger su coche y regresar al pueblo.
Las
pesquisas de Quasimodo tardaron pocas horas en dar sus frutos por que
el ladrón había despertado a los vecinos por la noche cuando llevaba
rodando un barril de cerveza por el empedrado de la calle, y varios se
habían quejado de él.
No había que ser muy listo para atar cabos.
Quasimodo no tardó en encontrar al Sisa.
- ¡Quasimodo! - le dijo, el Sisa cuando se encontraron- A la noche te estuve buscando para invitarte. Ayer tuve una hija. No me dejaron entrar para verla en el hospital provincial, pero organice una fiesta con los amigos y lo celebramos por todo lo alto: con unas bolsas de patatas fritas, maíz tostado ... y unas jarras de cervezas de barril.
mvf
Adelaide wanted to become an evangelizing nun in the Amazon, and when she told her geography teacher at the Sisters' school she attended, the teacher immediately sent her to talk to the Mother Superior before the "disease" spread through the class.
The next day, her parents had to go talk to the Mother Superior after explaining what had happened with their daughter. The Mother Superior added:
"That cannot be, because the word of God is reserved for men, and obedience and patience for women."
"¡Yes, Mother Superior, I certainly know that!" responded Adelaida's mother. "Moreover, what could I teach those women from the jungle? It would be inappropriate to suggest that they could go to work, imitating the life of men.- replied Adelaide's mother.
On the same day as the conversation, upon returning home from school, Adelaide's parents punished her by confining her to her room.
Alone in her room, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling with tear-filled eyes. The ceiling was adorned with phosphorescent stars that her mother had pasted when she was little, to keep her company when the lights went out. She lay there for a while without moving, with her eyes fixed on a blurry universe. When she stopped crying, she sat up, took two dolls from the shelf on the wall, and brought them back, placing them on her lap on the bed. One doll had red stockings and blonde streaked hair; the other had black hair and was named Pepona. Both dolls also couldn't understand why Adelaide couldn't be an evangelizing missionary in the Amazon.
After a while, she got tired of playing with the dolls and put them back on the shelf. As she did, she noticed the book her aunt had given her for her birthday.
She took the book from the shelf and lay on the bed, placing it on the floor, on top of the carpet, to read while lying face down.
She had read a couple of chapters when she realized that the characters in the novel, a group of teenagers, were speaking inside her head, and she could hear their voices as she ran her finger over the pages of the book. After this discovery, Adelaide started reading everything she could get her hands on during the punishments she had to endure in her room.
At school, she gave up the idea of becoming an evangelizing nun in the Amazon and began writing things that, after some time, she secretly let her best friend read, and eventually, they ended up in the hands of her classmates for them to read.
"How vain," we said, mocking her by calling her Adelaide Fuertes.
One day, Adelaide appeared with a box full of books with the intention of selling us one.
We were astonished. Adelaide Fuertes had written a novel!
What had happened? Had a bug bitten her, or was she born to write? Did she have a seed inside her that sprouted with reading?
"Such a mystery!"
The only thing to do here to shed some light on this matter is an essay on Adelaide's novel.
Essay on Adelaide's Novel
At the age of twenty-two, Adelaide neither studied nor worked, and with no prospects in sight, she decided to return to school. She enrolled in a basic professional training course for administrative work. There, she met some friends from the convent school. To celebrate our reunion, we continued teasing Adelaide.
We led normal lives, going from school to home and from home to school. Most of us excelled in religion class. It was a couple of months before June when Adelaide showed up at school with a box full of identical books.
We thought she wanted to become a bookseller or a librarian, but the mistake was quickly revealed.
While we struggled to fry an egg and complained at home that we didn't like fish or soup with thick noodles, our classmate wanted to make a statement. To do so, she had written a book.
She secretly wrote her manuscript, sending copies to the addresses of publishing houses she found in the books she read—some of which no longer existed. Eventually, she received a response from a printing press in Albacete, saying they would handle the Galician correction and printing of her first novel for a thousand euros.
Without hesitation, she deposited the amount in the account they provided and sent them the bank receipt and the complete manuscript. The origin of the funds was completely unknown to us. Someone said she spent the money her aunt left her when she died, expecting Adelaide to lead a normal life, go to university, and get married.
Now, Adelaide was at school with a box of books sent by the printing press, asking us to buy one to make some money and buy some clothes.
The first to buy the book was the philosophy teacher, who, being absent-minded, thought the purchase benefits were for a class trip. The philosophy teacher showed the book to the guidance counselor, who couldn't believe a student from the school had written a book. Believing the purchase was for a school trip, the guidance counselor also bought the book.
While the teachers were in the cafeteria, the principal noticed the book they were carrying and asked what they were reading. When they told him that a student, Adelaide Fuertes, had written a novel, he decided that a student's work should be in the school library and instructed the janitor to buy several books for the school.
The janitor went to find Adelaide and also bought one more book for himself, just in case he would be foolish not to take advantage of the opportunity to buy a book that could be as valuable as Adelaide Fuertes' early letters in the future. Besides, the novel with a dedication to friends was only ten euros; a real bargain, according to the janitor.
By late morning, some classmates had bought the book, and others bought it not to be left out. As my local book club seller says, "Everyone has a pile of unread books at home, and one more won't hurt." Adelaide returned home with an empty box.
Surprised by the success, she told her parents that night she would make dinner, and the whole family enjoyed a large pan of french fries with eggs and ketchup.
The first reading of the novel came from her best friend, who wanted to read Adelaide Fuertes' work to criticize it.
The book was full of mistakes, and to the reader's astonishment, even though it was written in Galician, it used words like "fiasta" or "miou" because it was corrected on the fly by the linotype operator from the Albacete printing press, who happened to be from Tomiño, Pontevedra province. Despite the unconventional phrases spoken by the characters in the novel:
However, we won't dwell on the unique use of the Galician language in the novel; instead, we'll focus on the complex plot.
Adelaide used paper notes stuck to the walls, as seen in detective movies where the detective hangs characters, events, and clues on the wall of their office, connected by red yarn. She used these as a guide to knit the plot of the novel onto paper with an old typewriter.
At some point, her parents decided to paint Adelaide's room, which hadn't been touched since her early childhood.
The appearance of the painters forced the author to unexpectedly pause in the novel. She had to remove the yellow notes from the wall, containing the main ideas of the work, and store them in a shoebox while the painters did their job. It took almost two weeks.
When the room smelled of freshly painted walls and the job was done, Adelaide returned with the shoebox and placed the yellow papers back on the walls. However, as they were second-hand, like relationships, they weren't rearranged like the first time.
This led to unexpected twists in the novel's plot, forcing readers to reflect:
Readers often had to stop to make sense of what they had just read - "Did I make a mistake in reading?" - and at other times, it seemed as if multiple conversations were happening on WhatsApp.
The mystery in the novel begins in the first pages:
The victim hadn't died; she had been killed by receiving a package of chorizos filled with rat poison via express delivery.
When the police arrived at the victim's house, they asked the neighbors if they had witnessed anything. Everyone declared the same: around the time the victim died, they were watching TV with their phones in hand.
"I didn't hear anything because I was watching TV with my phone and asking a friend through messaging if she knew what had just happened in the movie I was watching on TV."
The first moments of mystery in the novel:
Who was on the other end of the phone?
But in the second chapter of the novel, due to a lack of experience in the detective novel genre, the mystery ends when we find ourselves in the funeral home, just before transferring the victim to her final rest. The only one who shows up wearing makeup is the killer.
After several attempts in the novel's reading, we discover the motive for the crime.
The killer, as described in the novel, with the same name as the author, had to be like Adelaide because her coworkers in fiction gave her a bottle of perfume, and her boss had an air freshener of lemon placed on her door just for her.
The victim, a young man with significant potential for advancement in life, had just been signed by the local football team with the promise of receiving a five-euro bonus for every goal he scored. After several years of dating the killer, they had just broken up due to a fight she had with two of his best friends, knocking one of them out.
When they separated, the victim recklessly posted online how badly the killer spoke about her friends.
On this, I agree with Adelaide.
"One doesn't have to be very perceptive to understand the natural feelings that lead to the outcome."
The killer learns from her best friend in a park bar. She was unaware of the publication of her confidences on a social relationship page. It was sunny, and the rays bounced off the aluminum tables while she waited, drinking a horchata.
When her friend arrived, sitting across from her and ordering another horchata, they began to talk. At a moment in the conversation, her friend stopped sipping her horchata and said:
"I would have preferred another friend, but you were always there for me."
Upon hearing what her friend just said, the killer discovers that her ex has posted her confessions on the internet, and while sipping her drink with all the naturalness, she vows to take revenge on him.
At this moment, reading becomes easy and fluid. Skipping a dozen chapters - the most recommended to avoid getting lost again - we reach the climax when the postman discovers the killer injecting poison into a bag of chorizos.
"For whom are these chorizos?"
"They're for my ex's dog!"
"But your ex doesn't have a dog!"
Or something like that.
After publishing our essay on Adelaide's novel, we started receiving emails from friends expressing interest in knowing the title of the work. We regret disappointing the expectations generated in your kind emails. However, we sincerely believe that with our essay, we have contributed to Adelaide's work gaining more interest beyond her close circle of intimate friends and acquaintances. Although Adelaide may think otherwise and relate the low sales and dissemination of her novel to our essay and the healthy warnings about the risks of reading it that we have included.
To avoid any anger and frowns from my friend, which could hinder the tranquility and forgetfulness of the novel beyond reading it, I feel obligated to maintain and guard the silence about the title of the work.
To our surprise, some readers believe that the fight described in the novel has its origin in the author's real life. Insinuating that Adelaide is referring to when she beat up her cousins Caramalos for not letting her ex score a goal against them in a local football match. We won't give more clues.
Some readers have asked about the neighbors' messaging while the victim was preparing chorizos with boiled potatoes. We think the killer could have sent the neighbors some fake news to entertain them with their readings while the victim was agonizing.
Will there be a sequel to the novel?
We don't know what might be going through the author's mind right now, but we recall that before starting the reading of her work, she warns readers that they have the first edition of the novel in their hands. Adelaide may have many flaws, but she is not a liar, and we have no doubt that the victim will not go without seeking revenge. Therefore, soon, at the latest, we will have the eagerly awaited second part of her novel, and we can read the revenge of her ex-boyfriend.
