There are some words that fall like heavy latches on closed doors. There are some words that when you hear, you feel your heart tighten up and your breath cut-off.
There are some words that once you read, the only thing you wish for is everything to have been mistaken. Something like this happened that morning in a small neighborhood in Keratsini. It was a neighborhood where the honeysuckle and the jasmine smelled sweet and a handful of immigrants were residing in it from Asia Minor.
People with pride, grafters, united as a fist, a small neighborhood, a big family.
