Ana knew she would find him at the well.
The well would remain. The root would hold. The heart would grow. Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii
She looked at the book in his hands. The cover was faded, the spine cracked. Dumitru Matcovschi’s face, stern and kind, stared out from the back. Her grandfather had carried this book through the last years of the Soviet Union, through the reawakening of the language, through the dusty days of independence and the hungry winter that followed. Ana knew she would find him at the well
“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…” the spine cracked. Dumitru Matcovschi’s face