She put it on the windowsill.
That night, Ana lay on the living room carpet. Her cheek touched the fibers. She was nose-to-nose with the chocolate biscuit pile.
Then the chocolate biscuit crumbs rumbled. They had a low, dusty voice.
There, under the sofa cushion, was a golden half-moon – a piece of her son’s cornflake that had escaped three days ago. Near the leg of the coffee table, a dark, sandy pile of chocolate biscuit. And by the bookshelf, three tiny, hard breadcrumbs, like forgotten pebbles on a shore.
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