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PUMPKIN...

The master was walking down the street lost in thought when a woman's voice interrupted his ruminations.

"O Venerable One, how are you?"

She was the daughter of one of his students from many years ago. 

"I am fine, young lady. How is your mother?"

"She is fine. She says that you were her favorite teacher."

"She was certainly one of my favorite students."

The mother had a bohemian nature. She wrote poetry and played the guitar. A free spirit with a love of Portuguese and born into wealth, she would travel to the most exotic locales: Brazil, Cape Verde, Angola, Macau, Goa. 

"I was remembering my Pumpkin," she confessed one day when they were eating in the academy's cafeteria.

"Pumpkin?" replied the master, slightly confused.

"He was my boyfriend."

"And why did you call him Pumpkin?"

"I know that it is a cliché that lovers often use to address each other, but calling him Pumpkin seemed like the most natural expression of affection for me."

"What happened to Pumpkin?"

"The candle suddenly extinguished and the round eyes, the triangular nose and the jagged mouth went dark."

"I'm sorry, my daughter."

"There's no reason to feel sorry, O Venerable One. When I revisit the dark chambers of my memories, his candle still burns."

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