Elena Kane

Eighteen days.

The city has fallen silent like a predator does when it senses your fear and contemplates how long the game should continue.

We have returned to La Isla Dorada. The eatery seems empty now resembling a chapel following a funeral. The golden handprints, on the walls continue to shine, though brightly as if they too are worn out. The aroma of pernil and café con leche remains, blended now with something ozone, candle smoke and a subtle metallic scent that lingers ...