[...]
When he was a child, she would sometimes wake up in the middle of night, feeling terrified. Her father would carry her to the window and show her the town where they lived. He would talk to her about the nightwatchman, about the milkman who would already be out delivering the milk, about the baker making their daily bread. Her father was trying to drive out the monsters with which she'd filled the night and replace them with the people who kept watch over the darkness. 'The night is just a part of the day,' he would say.
[...]
Breda, Paulo Coelho
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