Carlos del Puente relatos
The character was dragging his own body and the body of his body pulling the rope with which he had tied them. By Carlos del Puente Stories
viernes, enero 31, 2025 The sky was a pale, washed-out gray, like the color of a forgotten dream. The air smelled of damp earth and rusted metal, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to leave. The character—let us call him Jean, though names mattered little in this world—was dragging his own body across the cracked pavement of a street that seemed...
