“Amén. Amén.”
The old man’s name was Héctor, and every night at exactly nine o’clock, the leather-bound book came out. It sat on the same worn spot of the oak table, its spine cracked like dry riverbed earth, the gold lettering faded to a dull bronze:
Luna sat on the floor at his feet, hugging her knees. She didn't say a word. She just listened. The thunder roared. The rain lashed. But Héctor’s voice was a stone wall. biblia reina valera 1960 amen amen
Her voice shook. But she finished. Then she closed the book, placed her hand where his had been for sixty years, and spoke into the silent, aching dark:
“Amén. Amén.”
“Aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte, no temeré mal alguno…”
A double amen. Not one for habit, but two: one for the truth, and one for the trust. “Amén
“No se turbe vuestro corazón; creéis en Dios, creed también en mí. En la casa de mi Padre muchas moradas hay…”