Own source
Every day I arrived at the same time. He waited for the door to open at five o'clock in the afternoon. Don Ambrosio greeted the priest, put his index finger in the baptismal font, dipped his finger a little, made a cross in the center of his forehead and felt how the holy water cleansed his soul. Then he sat on the bench in the fifth row, to the left of the main altar.
There he remained silent, closed his eyes and fell asleep. It was the only place where he could sleep on his own. At seven o'clock he was awakened by the murmurs of the parishioners who entered the seven o'clock mass. Then he got up, approached the main altar, knelt down and left through the central corridor of the church in his neighborhood.
Already in the street he walked along the main street until it began to get dark. Then he would go to the central library of his city, take the book he was reading, go up to the top floor, look for a free corner, sit down and read there until the dream conquered him. His body had become accustomed to sleeping in that somewhat uncomfortable position, but he had to pay that price because he never liked sleeping in the street.
He woke up at five in the morning, went to the bathroom, washed his face and went back to his place to continue reading, until, at half past seven, he went out to line up in the dining room for a hot breakfast.
Then he would wander the streets again until it was time to eat and would go to the other soup kitchen, the one near the beach. There he was allowed to eat two dishes, take a shower and wash his clothes.
At dusk he returned to the church with some hope in his pockets, which was all he had left.
