" When I came into my bedroom, a chill of wind came through the uncovered window and Cassandra was sleeping in the rectangle that used to be her bed when we shared a room. Her chest heaved, snoring quietly; Papá’s black wool coat, which Mamá had saved, wrapped around her legs, and her hair tousled and knotted around her. She looked so peaceful sleeping: her shiny black hair in waves about her head, and her skin with twitching, muscular secrets underneath. I walked around her ghost bed and I went to lie down in mine. "

― Ingrid Rojas Contreras , Fruit of the Drunken Tree