Mis Marcadores Moviles |link| Link

Mis marcadores móviles had finally found their anchor.

Sofía stared at the photo for a long time. She had no memory of Mateo. No memory of Granada. No memory of a promise made under a bridge of sighs. mis marcadores moviles

One rainy Tuesday in a temporary studio apartment in Buenos Aires, Sofía picked up an old copy of Rayuela —Hopscotch—by Julio Cortázar. She had read it years ago, in another lifetime. As she opened it, something fell out. Mis marcadores móviles had finally found their anchor