A photograph.
But there was one thing Sofía collected everywhere she went: bookmarks. mis marcadores moviles
She turned the photo over. On the other side, in her own handwriting, she had written a single line: A photograph
For the first time in her life, Sofía felt something heavier than curiosity. It was the weight of a place she had left behind. The weight of a person she had forgotten. The weight of a bookmark that had, somehow, moved on its own. in her own handwriting
And yet, her hand was trembling.
Sofía had never been good at staying still. As a child, her grandmother would say she had hormigas en los pies —ants in her feet. Now, at twenty-eight, she had ants in her entire life.