Waking up in the middle of the night, Victor's head was somewhat aching.
After the conference ended and an evening banquet followed, these American capitalists vented all their anger through drinks, each one toasting a glass, leaving Victor slightly drunk.
Wearing pajamas, he walked to the balcony and smoked a cigarette.
Sounds rustled behind him, and then he felt a coat draped over his shoulders. When he turned his head, he saw Belsaria saying, "Don't catch a cold, the weather changes rapidly now."
Victor nodded with a smile, "Why aren't you sleeping a bit more?"
Belsaria sat beside him, her gaze on the sky, "Isn't Mexico's Day of the Dead next month? I want to commemorate my father and grandfather."
Victor was taken aback; it had almost been a year already.
"Then this year, let's organize a grand procession for the Day of the Dead, so the public can remember their ancestors. True death is not dying but being forgotten."
