I turned toward him.
“Did she say when she was coming?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Then he left.
I watched the car disappear down the mountain road.
Only when the sound of the engine vanished did I realize something.
I was completely alone.
No neighbors.
No nearby houses.
No phone signal.
No car.
No one knew exactly where I was.
I closed the door.
The cabin was freezing.
I lit the fireplace with shaking hands and sat beside it.
For hours, I did nothing.
I held the last photograph I had of Neftalí.
It was taken three months before his death.
He was standing beside the lake, smiling.
I remembered the way he had looked at me that day.
Almost nervous.
I hadn’t understood why.
Now I wondered.
At midnight, I finally fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke to silence.
Real silence.
Not the kind inside a mansion where servants move quietly through hallways.
This was different.
No traffic.
No voices.
No doors.
Only wind moving through the trees.
I made coffee.
Then I began cleaning.
I don’t know why.
Perhaps it was because cleaning was the only thing I knew how to do when I was frightened.
