There are some words that fall like heavy latches on closed doors. There are some words that when you hear, you feel your heart tighten up and your breath cut-off. There are some words that once you read, the only thing you wish for is everything to have been mistaken. Something like this happened that morning in a small neighborhood in Keratsini. It was a neighborhood where the honeysuckle and the jasmine smelled sweet and a handful of immigrants were residing in it from Asia Minor. People with pride, grafters, united as a fist, a small neighborhood, a big family.
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