She looked at the photo, then at me.
“I’m not angry,” she said softly. “I’m just… tired. I don’t want to look at their faces anymore.”
Her words cut deep. This wasn’t just about the airport. It was about years of waiting for calls that never came, visits that were always too short. The airport was just the final crack in something that had been breaking for a long time.
Casi tres semanas después del aeropuerto, Dorian llama con una actualización.
“Hemos confirmado la transferencia bancaria y hablado con el