La aventura de mi vida.

Previously

…Maya’s fingers, usually deft with a paintbrush or the delicate threads of her embroidery, traced the worn spines of leather-bound books, their titles faded into illegibility. She imagined her grandmother as a young woman, perhaps just as curious, just as eager for what lay beyond the horizon. A sigh escaped her lips, a gentle puff of air that disturbed the settled dust. Oakhaven was beautiful, with its salty breezes and the endless murmur of the sea, but for Maya, it