There was no clock to wake up, or even a simple rooster to announce, as a foreshadowing, that a spark of red or even orange spreads across the sky on the horizon of that place. Zeca had left us.
I met her passing through the chapel—resting on her swollen legs; with a bag of something she stuck to, which she said made very good tea for the joints. He picked up his bag, looked into the chapel, and said, “Do you know why the deceased is never buried on his back, my thread? When we see someone face down, we see ourselves and we see ourselves in the center of the spine... And that is why Miltinho, when people are buried, they are not placed face down”.
I started to connect the dots. At night a rooster crowed.