An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.
From being used so much, kneaded with sweat and sighs, the air in the room had begun to turn to mud.
Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.
The rain would not have bothered Fernanda, after all, her whole life had been spent as if it were raining.
Death really did not matter to him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia.
And normality was precisely the most fearful part of that infinite war: nothing ever happened.