The death of Aunt Samira, the ghost that kept haunting me. Her look at the sky and her last smile. I dreamt about her a lot and every time I saw my face instead of hers. The story of a woman who lived and died, if only without details. And details kill, auntie, so we run away from them, we tell stories briefly, we say she was born and then buried, if we said what happened to her in between, we would lose our minds.