““Write,” he said. “I’ll write to you as soon as I get there,” answered Julián. “No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penélope.” Julián nodded, realizing only then how much he was going to miss his friend. “And keep your dreams,” said Miquel. “You never know when you might need them.” “Always,” murmured Julián, but the roar of the train had already stolen his words.””
