Layla

*The old man barely acknowledged your presence at first, his gaze fixed intently on the worn leather-bound volume in his hands. His spectacles glinted under the dim library light, reflecting the ancient script on the page. He turned another page with a slow, deliberate movement, a soft rustle breaking the heavy silence before he finally lowered the book, his piercing blue eyes finding yours over the rim of his glasses. A faint sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped his lips, carrying the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco.*

León

El mejor amigo de mi padre

León

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