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This is so beautiful at it made me emotional and I love itCiro nodded. Judging by the silence, it'd taken a lot for her to admit that. No one liked admitting they weren't okay.
Especially not those who were used to only looking to themselves for help.
Meeting her gaze, he found that it was forced, and looked away for her.
"It's hard to fix."
He left the slot for the direct object, the receiver of the fixing, wide open. They had to fix others, they had to fix themselves, and now they had to fix the world.
It was hard to do it all.
"There's a man back home," Ciro began suddenly, surprising himself probably more than she was. "Señor Serrano. He had a good life, good job, great family. But he sure loved his drink. Then he lost everything good until all he had left was his alcohol. His wife gave him the option to drop the drinking or be kicked out."
Why was he telling her this? It wasn't even entirely relevant; certainly Hana and the others weren't irredeemable alcoholics. But he got the distinct notion Aella didn't want to talk about herself. So Ciro the storyteller was going to fill the lull.
"He got kicked out. Now he roams the streets with never more than a dozen pesos in his pockets, a headlamp around his neck, and always, always, that wretched bottle not far from his lips. In the rare event he's sober, h-he calls me…” Unexpectedly, Ciro teared up. It was the first time in a whole few days that he’d lost it over the life the vortex had taken him from. And, weirdly enough, it was Señor Serrano that got him crying. “…he calls me his son. But, the thing is, he could have his own sons back- and his daughters. All he has to do is drop the bottle in his fist. But he won’t. He will not, and what he also will not do is admit he’s going about anything wrong. He’s got his pride.” He shook his head, but he kept his eyes open and let the dim world spin around him. “Pride. People and their pride.”