Chapter Three: When Winter Arrives (#14)

On Sunday, Tomás decided to go to the hospital to visit Professor Krikket. Since Eleonor's visit, they hadn't spoken again, and there were still things left unsaid between them, like crumpled words between forgotten pages.

The hospital always left him with a difficult-to-explain feeling. Despite the pale colors and the kind faces of the staff, it seemed to him like a place of transit, a hallway between life and death. As if, more than healing, people came here to learn how to leave.

He thought that perhaps dying wasn't like a black curtain suddenly falling, but rather like a silent, white rain, gradually blurring the contours of the world.

The room was on the same floor as always, halfway down the corridor. He knocked softly before entering. Krikket, lying down, turned his face toward the door. He looked at him with genuine surprise. He hadn't expected to see him so soon.

Tomás offered a faint smile, and without a word, he approached the window. The same spot from where he had observed the sky on previous visits. He liked being there. Perhaps because he didn't know how to start the conversation, or perhaps because from that window, the ebb and flow of the waves made him feel better.

"I have news," he finally said, without turning around. "I think I found your daughter."

The professor sat up a little in bed, his brow furrowed with astonishment. He felt a jolt run down his spine, as if something that had been dormant for years had suddenly awakened.

"My daughter?" he whispered, more to himself than to Tomás. The word felt strange in his mouth, almost forgotten.

"I'm not sure if she wants to see you," Tomás warned cautiously. "But if you wished... I can try to arrange a meeting."

Krikket didn't respond immediately. He stared fixedly at a spot on the ceiling, as if he could find the answers to questions he had been avoiding for decades there.

"When she was little... sometimes I would look for her," he finally murmured, his voice broken. "After school, when she came out in her uniform with her backpack full of notebooks. I would stand across the street, in silence. I never dared to call her."

He fell silent. Then he laughed with an old, almost tender bitterness.

"I also saw her the day she started university. She was beautiful, with that air of independence she inherited from her mother. But I... I couldn't. What was I going to tell her? 'Hello, I'm the man who abandoned you?' I became a ghost, a blur she can barely remember. She probably hates me. And with good reason."

Tomás didn't want to contradict him. He didn't know enough to do so. Besides, recognizing in his mentor someone capable of abandoning a child pained him deeply, because he had suffered the same thing.

"Even so... would you like to see her? Just once."

Krikket looked at him with tired eyes, as if at that moment, the years, the regrets, the silences had all descended upon him.

"Yes. Of course. But don't put too much hope in it. Some wounds don't heal with time... they just get covered in dust."

At that instant, hurried footsteps were heard in the hallway. The door opened with a slight creak and Sofía entered, drenched from shoulders to skirt. Her hair dripped onto her jacket and her cheeks were flushed from the cold.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, shaking her half-closed umbrella. "It started raining just as I got out of the car. The parking lot is an eternity from the entrance..."

Krikket smiled, with that slight smile he had learned to force when his strength failed him.

"Don't worry, Sofía. You've brought the whole winter with you, but it's still good to see you."

She gave him an amused, yet concerned look, as she approached with short steps and sat on the edge of the bed. Tomás greeted her with a nod and then looked out the window again. The rain began to mark its path on the glass, like timid fingers caressing a memory.

Krikket, for the first time in a long time, seemed truly fragile. Not because of his illness, but because of what he had just relived. His daughter. His past. The weight of the unsaid.

And as the rain continued to fall, Tomás wondered if he could really change anything. If he even had the right to intervene in a story that wasn't his. If bringing her that information would hurt her even more, or if she held, somewhere in her heart, the desire to see her father again, even if it was just one last time.

If you asked him, he clearly couldn't say yes.

Tomás had already said what he came to say. There were no more words that could add anything useful, and he felt it best to give Krikket and Sofía some space. He made a "be right back" gesture and slipped out into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind him.

The hospital, silent in that part of the building, had the dense calm of Sunday afternoons, when even time seemed to slow down. He walked to the end of the hallway, where the coffee vending machine flickered with a monotonous hum. As he moved, remorse crept back into his chest, like an icy breeze seeping under his clothes.

He thought of Krikket's daughter. Of the expression she would make upon hearing the news. What if seeing her, instead of finding comfort, her pain opened up like an old wound that never closed? What if his appearance brought more ruin than peace?

The weight of the memory of his own father crushed him without warning. He saw him clearly, as if he were in front of him: his coat hanging by the entrance, his shoes by the threshold, the smell of cigar mixed with cheap perfume. And then, nothing. He too had become a shadow, he couldn't even remember his face clearly anymore.

One ordinary afternoon, he came home from school and found no one. Only an unexpected silence. His mother in the darkness, mute. Amelie crying. And his father... gone.

Nine years had passed, and not a single letter, not a single call. As if the world had swallowed him whole.

Tomás leaned his back against the wall and let his head lightly hit the plaster. He closed his eyes.

The wound didn't hurt as it used to, but it was still there. An absence isn't cured: you just learn to carry it. However, that loss had left an even greater wound, that of his mother, and that was a wound that split open daily.

He put the coins in the machine and ordered a cappuccino first, thinking that if Sofía liked any coffee, it would be that one.

He waited a few more seconds and then ordered a mocha for himself. The warmth of the cup comforted his fingers, cold from the hospital, from the winter, from the memories, from everything.

He returned to the room.

Upon entering, Krikket and Sofía were talking in low voices. He stopped by the door and held up the cups with a faint smile.

"Mocha or cappuccino?"

Sofía approached and took the mocha with a grateful smile.

"Thanks," she said. "Just what I needed."

He sat down next to them. He tried to integrate into the conversation with some empty anecdote, a comment about the weather, a small story that would have made her laugh before.

But inside, the idea was still there. Sticky. Dark.

The image of Krikket's daughter receiving the news repeated over and over in his mind. What if he made her cry? What if he unintentionally broke her?

What if everything went very wrong?

He swallowed hard, disguising the lump in his throat with a long sip of coffee. Never had a cappuccino tasted so bland.

The wall clock moved slowly, with a barely audible tick-tock, but in his head, it sounded like an airplane turbine accelerating.

Finally, Sofía stood up and bid Krikket farewell with a short but sincere hug. Tomás said goodbye with a gesture; they both looked at each other as if understanding why, and together they left the room.

The hallway was darker. Outside, the rain continued to fall, finer but persistent, forming rivers on the windows. Tomás opened his umbrella and extended it over Sofía as they stepped out.

"I'll walk you to your car."

She simply nodded, as if she didn't even want to be seen talking to him.

They walked in silence through the parking lot, carefully crossing puddles, while she adjusted the scarf around her neck.

They reached the car, a small red sedan with drops drumming on the roof. Sofía fumbled for her keys in her bag. The sound of the automatic lock interrupted the incessant sound of the rain.

"Thanks for walking me," she said, without looking at him. "And for the coffee."

"Sure," he replied, with a slight smile. "Don't worry."

She stood still for a moment, her hand already on the handle.

"I can't drive you," she said, lowering her voice. "I'm so sorry, Tomás... but I can't risk someone seeing us."

He nodded, unsurprised. "I understand. I didn't expect you to drive me."

He was about to turn to leave when he heard her say, almost with anger at herself:

"Get in!"

He stopped dead, turning his head.

"What?"

"Get in, Tomás. I don't know what I'm doing anymore... but get in fast before I change my mind."

He hesitated for just a second. Then he walked around the car, opened the passenger door, and got in, closing it just before a gust of wind drenched his back.

Inside, it smelled of wet leather and floral perfume. The silence was thick.

Sofía started the engine, took a deep breath, and adjusted herself in the seat. And then, without looking back, Sofía drove the car out of the parking lot.

The rain beat against the windshield as if it too were searching for answers.

Sofía's vexed face told him everything. She didn't need to speak; every gesture, every line of tension on her face, screamed what she didn't want to admit. Tomás felt uncomfortable. It was obvious she would have preferred not to take him. Perhaps, he thought, he should have refused more firmly from the beginning.

They drove a good distance in silence, with only the sound of the rain hitting the windshield as the soundtrack to their discomfort.

"You didn't have to do it if it's that complicated," Tomás finally said, his voice tense, tired of feeling invisible, as if he were always the source of all problems.

Sofía slammed on the brakes by the side of the road. The car shuddered slightly as it stopped, and the hum of the engine died. The sound of the rain, suddenly unfiltered, became deafening.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" she asked, without looking at him.

"What thing?"

"That thing you do... you always know what to say to make me feel like an idiot."

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. Her wet hair covered part of her face, like a curtain behind which she hid.

"I don't understand what you mean," Tomás replied, resting his elbow on the door and turning toward her. "I just stated the obvious. It's clear on your face that you didn't want to take me. If it was such a problem, you didn't have to. I don't mind walking." He squeezed his umbrella as if it contained all his restraint. "I told you, didn't I?"

"Couldn't you just accept that I gave you a ride in silence?" she asked, her eyes still fixed straight ahead.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she replied with a long sigh, laden with suppressed anger. "You didn't say anything wrong. But I remind you that all of this is your fault. You should try to put yourself in my shoes."

"I am trying," he retorted, in a harsher tone than he intended to use. "I told you, you didn't need to drive me. And I'm not the only one to blame. It's both of us. I remind you that you hit me that day. We were both there... 'together'."

Sofía closed her eyes tightly and gripped the steering wheel even harder. Finally, she hit it with both hands, letting out a dry, desperate thud.

"Is everything that bad?"

"Worse at times," she murmured, sinking into her seat. "I thought everything would pass quickly, that I could handle this, but my patience is running out."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Nothing," she whispered, sinking into the seat. "There's nothing you can do."

Tomás looked at her in silence. He wanted to say something, but words piled up, useless. He leaned towards the door and moved his hand to the handle.

"I'm sorry for causing you so many problems," he said, as the rain hit the roof without stopping for a second. "I'll try to keep my distance."

She didn't move. She didn't react. She seemed trapped in a place where he could no longer reach her.

"Sorry," he whispered, and opened the door.

A gust of cold air invaded the car interior. Tomás opened his umbrella and got out. As he closed the door, he felt a knot in his chest, tight, rough, as if invisible hands were mercilessly squeezing his ribs. He looked at her one last time through the windshield. She remained motionless, head bowed, clutching the steering wheel as if her stability depended on it.

He walked down the road in the rain. The wind creaked the tree branches and shook his umbrella as if trying to snatch it away. Finally, he closed it and continued on foot, drenched, head bowed, with a sharp frustration in his stomach.

What could he do for her? What did he have to offer her beyond more problems?

He clenched his fists, his teeth, his memories.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't hear the car stop beside him. He only noticed the horn honking over and over. He turned his head. The rain hit his face hard, blinding him for an instant.

Sofía got out of the car, leaving the door wide open.

"Where do you think you're going? Are you planning to leave me alone like this?" she cried desperately, with a mixture of rage and anguish tangled in her throat. "Are you running away from me?"

Tomás looked at her, drenched, tired, dazed.

"What do you want me to do?" he shouted back. "If I get close, you push me away. If I move away, you're also bothered. Tell me what I'm supposed to do, because I have no idea!"

Sofía approached him and took him by his coat with both hands, trembling from the cold or perhaps from everything she had kept silent for too long.

"It doesn't matter what I tell you. It doesn't matter what I do. You can't abandon me." Her eyes, reddened, searched his furiously, desperately. "This is your fault too."

"I know," he said, without moving, without looking away.

"Then don't get rid of me."

"It wasn't my intention."

For a second, they just looked at each other. There was too much weight in the air between them, an invisible rope that connected them and seemed about to break... or to drag them back to each other.

"Get in the car..." she said, lowering her voice as if apologizing to the universe. "Please."

Tomás hesitated for just a moment, and then nodded. He walked silently to the car. This time, he said nothing.

And neither did she.

Both got back in, wet, trembling. The engine roared again and the car resumed its journey in the rain.

But something, however minimal, had changed.

And neither of them knew if it was for better... or for worse.