I swept the floors.
Opened the windows.
Pulled old sheets from the furniture.
I found mold behind a cabinet.
A broken lamp.
A rusted stove.
An old cradle near the fireplace.
I froze when I saw it.
A cradle.
Why was there a cradle in an abandoned mountain cabin?
I walked closer.
I touched the wood.
Then I remembered.
Neftalí had brought that cradle here when he was younger.
He had laughed when I asked him why.
“I’m going to fix this place someday.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“You don’t even come here.”
“Not yet.”
At the time, I had thought nothing of it.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I continued cleaning.
In the corner of the living room stood a small wooden altar.
I recognized it too.
Neftalí had made it himself.
I wiped away the dust.
Then I placed his photograph on top.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
My voice broke.
“I miss you so much.”
I searched the kitchen for a candle.
Inside an old drawer, I found an iron candlestick.
It was ugly and heavy.
When I lifted it, my hand slipped.
The candlestick struck the floor.
Boom.
The sound was strange.
I stopped.
I looked down.
