The second night, the third night, everything repeated itself. The chair. The silence. The gaze. The family moved as if they had made a pact: heads down, mouths closed, no explanations.
By the fourth night, something had left me petrified. I was asleep when I felt someone beside me. Heavy breathing near my ear.
I woke with a start, and there he was, so close I could smell his old cologne. He still hadn’t touched me. He was mesmerized, his gaze fixed on my eyelids as if he were cutting off my breath.
He shuddered as if he had been caught committing a crime and immediately stepped back.
I sat down and the room was suddenly colder.
He lowered his gaze.
I didn’t lie. It’s just that… tonight was different.
During the day, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I asked what scared me:
He stayed right by the window. Outside, the trees swayed in the wind.
My throat felt like it was going to cry.
SŅ respŅesta coпteпía más miedo que υe certeza.
That night I pretended to sleep, with my eyes closed and my mind awake. He brought the chair. He sat on the floor, next to the bed, as if he were on guard.
A long silence.
Then he admitted: “Yes.”
“Whose?”
He didn’t look at me.
—Not about you —he said—. About your past.
Little by little, the truth began to come to light. He told me that his first wife had died in her sleep.
