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"This," he said, "is the plaza. To your left, the granary. We will build it tomorrow. Behind me, the church. We will raise its walls by the next full moon. And the census?" He turned to Huara. "My daughter will write it when she learns her letters."
"You are Alonso Martínez?" the governor asked.
He walked to the center of the square and drew a line in the dirt with his heel. El Fundador
Then the governor turned away. He mounted his horse and rode out of the valley without another word. His men followed. The dust of their departure hung in the air like a question.
He had founded something, after all. Not a city. A beginning. "This," he said, "is the plaza
"Esperanza," he said. "Hope."
Alonso looked at the governor. Then he looked at his people. He thought of the first year, the cave, the roots, the fish, the tree he had carved. He thought of Huara's hand on his chest. Behind me, the church
"What will you name her?" Huara asked.