Âm thanh chia sẻ

deep into her skull., She would lie on her mat like someone already halfway in the grave. Each time this happened, the villagers would whisper, “This is the end.” But it was never the end. Because whenever Amora became sick, a child would die. At first nobody understood the connection. Then they started noticing the pattern. Whenever she was sick and a baby came close to her hut, Amora would slowly open her eyes. Dark. Cold. Unblinking. She would not touch the child and she would not speak.