Bujare sat by her husband’s bed. He was dying. He was dying for the last year and a half, but death seemed to be around the corner now. She didn’t want to leave his side.
She looked at Gjergj’s face. She remembered his bright young face when they first met. He had sharp and witty eyes and a smiling mouth under his thick mustachio. And those features stayed with him as he grew old. The wit and the generous spirit. Stayed, at least until their daughter Rozafati was murdered. He was already sick before that, but her death made many of his defenses crumble.
Now he lay, hardly breathing, looking like a child in the blankets – he shrunk so much from the sickness. Read the rest of this entry »