*Luca*
Abuela María’s kitchen is warm and quiet, the evening light fading through the small window above the sink. She made dinner earlier, and now Ava and I stand side by side, drying dishes together after cleaning off the table.
Ava is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. It isn’t just her opinions–bold, unflinching thoughts on the court and the men who twist the law to justify s*******r–but there’s also the way she speaks of power with fury that suggests she’s seen behind the curtain. Ava always seems to know what will happen next. Her guesses land too close to truth, subtle but unsettling. She says she can’t remember who she is or where she’s from, and perhaps that’s true. Even so, she remains an enigma. I find myself drawn to her, but I also don’t fully trust her yet.
She speaks of Isabe
