Miguel-Anxo Murado

Sample

The priest’s finger slid over young Salva’s forehead, from above to below, from right to left. North, south, east, west. He deposited a cross, a cross of ashes.

‘You are dust, and to dust you shall return.’

The boy got up from the cold stone floor and went back to his mother, who also had an ash cross on her forehead, like everybody else.

An ash cross. A premonition of the day to come. Outside, not far away, the fire was breaking out for the third day running. As the prayers of the funeral mass continued, one could smell the smoke in the air, getting closer and closer. On leaving the church, he saw it – a black column rising up from the horizon.

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