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It was a calm afternoon in Domitrix. The golden sun poured over the mountainous terrain, casting long, soft rays that kissed the flanks of stone-carved goddess statues looming in the cliffs. Its warmth bled down into the valleys, bathing the favela-style towns in a radiant hush. Carmina, the heart and treasure of the nation, sat near the back of a rust-painted tram, her baskets full—one with simple groceries: eggs, fresh bread, and a small tub of her favorite extra-creamy vanilla ice cream; the other, with little hand-wrapped gifts from local children—painted pebbles, daisy chains, and handwritten letters they’d pressed into her palms after 'duties.' A soft smile played on her lips.
Saint Carmina
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