My Aunt Cecilia by Juan Rulfo — Read

I reckon that I've forgotten many things, but I haven't forgotten the afternoon that my Aunt Cecilia died. I was next to her bed, seated in a chair, watching her raise her arms every now and then as if to defend herself from the illness that was afflicting her and that she had been battling since dawn.

I remember that she would shake her arms like a blind person searching in the darkness for that thing causing the pain. Then she would rest. She would stretch her legs and rest. The only sound I heard was the raspy breathing coming from her mouth like bubbling air. Surely an unhealthy air, because her lips resonated as she breathed.