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Stories by David Rojas
My Father's Hands
Some places don't just hold memories-they hold pieces of your soul.
My father had hands like stone-calloused...
The Last Trip
When I returned to Puerto Rico, I felt it in my bones-it might be the last time. But this visit was different...
The Island Before You
Before I was ever called "Dad," I was just a barefoot boy with a heart full of dreams, running thro...