Me acuerdo de la primera nevada de mi vida. Tenía veintinueve años. Salí al jardín en aquel país donde los elfos te espían desde sus refugios, abrí los brazos y dejé que los copos se acurrucaran en los pliegues de mi abrigo negro. Era otoño, como hoy. El abrigo sigue colgado detrás de la puerta …
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