That night the rain hammered the roof. The community center filled with the low noises of people sleeping in chairs, the soft clink of someone counting coins, the occasional exhalation that sounded like a concession. Marta lay awake thinking of the things the torrent had returned and taken: the rocking horse with a newly varnished mane, the Neruda with its margins wet, the wooden fence that had once demarcated small, private grievances.
That night the rain hammered the roof. The community center filled with the low noises of people sleeping in chairs, the soft clink of someone counting coins, the occasional exhalation that sounded like a concession. Marta lay awake thinking of the things the torrent had returned and taken: the rocking horse with a newly varnished mane, the Neruda with its margins wet, the wooden fence that had once demarcated small, private grievances.
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