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Stories have no beginning and no end. They are a constant of instants, an infinite network of finite parts, a fractal reflection of a void that fills the cosmos with chaos, of paths that expand back toward the origin. And perhaps that is why this is not a new beginning, but a new ending that inevitably leads me to a new origin, to the moment where everything began. If I remember correctly, this story also began at Christmas, but clearly in summer, in my hometown in Argentina,