Chapter Four: This Is My Pain (#6)

That Saturday morning dawned colder than usual. Before the first rays of sun peeked over the damp neighborhood tiles, Tomás had finished dressing, with slow, almost ceremonial movements. In his pocket, he carried the sheet with the address Eleonor had given him days ago. He had folded it carefully, though in doing so, something inside him had also bent. He felt as if he were carrying a kind of silent bomb to a family who didn't know him, and to a woman who surely didn't want to know anything about that past he was now coming to stir up.

Before leaving, he wrote a short message to Soledad:

"I'll wait for you at the train station, see you there."

He didn't add more. A part of him feared that adding another word would reveal how much her presence meant to him. He looked at the message one last time before sending it, as if he could hold his breath within those letters. Then he left, closing his front door with a slight click, like someone who doesn't want to wake anyone.

The station was still stirring to life. The sky, tinged with blue and gray, seemed like an unfulfilled promise of sun. He bought two tickets for the express train that crossed the coast towards the capital, with a stop in San Sebastián. The paper of the tickets crinkled when he put them in the inside pocket of his jacket. He sat on one of the concrete benches on platform ten, with the cold clinging to his back and hope suspended in the air.

Despite the certainty he tried to feign, he kept looking towards the station entrance. He hadn't received a reply to his message. Even so, he forced himself to wait. To believe.

He checked his phone every so often, not out of impatience, but out of fear. A quiet, persistent fear, the kind that doesn't need a voice to make itself known. The kind that slowly corrodes.

The station loudspeaker crackled to life with its usual screech:

—"Express to Calabria, platform ten; I repeat: Express to Calabria on platform ten, departing in ten minutes."

Tomás looked up. The number ten blinked red above his head. He looked at his phone again, just to check the time. Just to...

A message suddenly appeared, floating on the screen like a sentence:

"Sorry, I can't make it today, something important came up. Good luck with your thing."

There was no real apology, no explanation. Just a soft evasion, wrapped in dry courtesy. Tomás felt a pang piercing his heart, without a sound, like fabric tearing in the dark.

He kept his face expressionless, containing the emotions that gripped him. He put away his phone without haste. He took out the two tickets and, with empty calm, left one on the concrete bench, as if abandoning there not only a seat, but the image he had built of her company. The image of Soledad, her orange hair, her eyes always full of life and her kind smile, delivered a silent but visceral stab.

He boarded the train without looking back.

The carriage was half-full. He sat by the window, leaving the other seat empty, like a mute witness to what didn't happen. Beside him, Soledad's absence became an oppressive presence, occupying more space than any body could have filled, like a ghost accompanying him on the journey, leaning on his shoulders.

Outside, the sea crashed fiercely against the rocks. The waves broke with a savage beauty, tossing foam into the wind as if wanting to touch the sky. The train snaked along the coast, and for a moment, Tomás clung to the swaying of the rails, as if that movement could lull him away from sadness. "How terrible hope can be when it's founded on nothing," he thought, and rested his forehead against the glass. The cold pierced his skin.

As the train moved away from the coast and into the fields, the green meadows, blurred by the fog, seemed like dreams that are never quite fulfilled. San Sebastián appeared in the distance like a city without urgency, drowsy in the winter mist.

He took a taxi from the station. The driver wasn't very talkative, which he appreciated. He followed the road in silence, watching the houses pass by, all so similar and yet each containing a world he knew nothing about.

Finding the address was harder than expected. Many houses lacked numbers, others seemed abandoned. Some were separated by irregular walls and tangled gardens. He walked until his legs ached. He sat in a small square to catch his breath and his patience.

Children played ball, a woman rocked her baby in a stroller. Everything was normal, serene. And he, with his task in hand, felt like an anomaly, like a crack in someone else's perfect day.

Finally, an old woman walking with a grocery bag pointed him in the right direction. "She's my granddaughter's teacher," she said with a smile, "a very sweet woman." He just nodded, unable to reply.

The house was on a quiet street, lined with poplars. He stopped in front of the gate. He didn't dare to knock.

There, in the backyard, he saw a young woman. Her brown hair was tied in a simple braid, and a natural, luminous smile was on her face. She was playing with a small girl, who ran around her laughing. Tomás felt a pang pierce his chest. That scene seemed stolen from a postcard of a perfect life.

Then a tall man with large hands appeared, approaching both of them. The girl ran into his arms. He kissed the woman's forehead. The picture was so complete it hurt.

Tomás pressed his lips together.

It wasn't the time. It wasn't the place. It wasn't him.

However, it was his responsibility. Someone had to carry that wound. And if someone had to get their hands dirty with the mud of the past, he, who had hit rock bottom so many times, could do it.

He took a deep breath. He took two steps towards the gate. His hand rose towards the doorbell, but it trembled.

And still, he rang.

The doorbell rang just once before Tomás wished he could take it back. His hand still trembled next to the button, and a dull nausea crept up his chest like a shadow made of guilt. He waited. It wasn't long before the gate opened.

On the other side, standing at the entrance of the house, was the woman he had seen laughing a few minutes earlier. Her hair was still tied back, but now her expression was one of slight surprise. Her face was younger than he had imagined for someone who had to carry the history he brought. She wore worn jeans and a simple sweatshirt. An apron with flower designs was still tied around her waist. The girl who had been playing with her now watched from the threshold, clutching a doll.

"Yes?" Delia asked, kindly, though with an involuntary tension between her eyebrows.

Tomás swallowed.

"Miss Delia Krikket?"

She hesitated for a second, then nodded cautiously. The surname on his lips had drained the color from her face.

"Who's asking?"

"My name is Tomás... I'm a student of Professor Emanuel Krikket. Your father."

The direct, blunt mention fell like a sledgehammer between them. Delia blinked, stunned. The hand holding the gate railing clenched.

"My father?" she repeated softly, with a mixture of surprise, alarm, and distrust. "Is he... is he okay?"

Tomás hesitated only for an instant. He found no gentle way, nor did he want to. There was no tenderness in what he had to say.

"He's dying. He's alone. He has no one."

Delia's expression disfigured in a second. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, searching for an answer that didn't come. She clung to the railing as if she needed to anchor herself to something solid.

"What...? What are you saying?"

"What you heard," Tomás insisted, his voice dry. "He's sick. He has no family, no friends, no hope. And not a single day goes by without him repeating your name."

Delia clenched her teeth. In her eyes, there was not only surprise, but also an old, repressed pain, hardened by the years. And now that pain was erupting again, torn open abruptly like a badly healed scab.

"He left," she murmured, more to herself. "He left without saying anything. One day he didn't come back. He left me with a broken mother and a ruined life."

Tomás didn't respond. There were no words that could counteract that. And yet, his silence weighed as heavily as her confession.

Delia took a step back, as if her legs had instinctively decided to retreat. She looked towards the door, towards her daughter.

"And you come now to bring me this?"

"I come because no one else will," Tomás replied, lowering his voice, finally aware of the abyss they were in. "Because he doesn't dare to look for you. Because he has no strength or dignity. And because, if you don't do it, no one will do it for him."

Delia crossed her arms. The restraint made her tremble.

"And what do you expect? For me to go hug him? To cry by his bedside?"

"I expect nothing," Tomás admitted. "I'm just telling you. What you do with that is your business."

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. The winter wind blew gently, cold, carrying a leaf that passed between them, like a failed truce.

"Where is he?" she asked in a low voice, as if the question had escaped her.

Tomás took a folded paper from his jacket. He held it out. Delia looked at it without taking it at first, but finally reached out.

"He's at the central hospital, South Wing, room 512. I don't know how much time he has left."

She held the paper between her fingers, as if it burned. She looked back at her house. The girl was still watching from the door, curious.

"I can't promise you anything," Delia said.

"I'm not asking for promises."

She remained silent, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, Tomás's voice returned, softer:

"There's something else... I don't want to seem presumptuous, but... would it be possible for you to also contact his ex-wife?"

Delia raised an eyebrow skeptically. The paper trembled in her hand.

"My mother?"

"Yes. He wouldn't say it aloud, but... I think she's also on his mind. Not for reconciliation, or to talk about love. But to close the circle. As if... as if he needs to see with his own eyes that the damage is irreparable."

Delia looked at him for a long time. Then she nodded, barely, almost imperceptibly.

"I'll think about it."

"That's enough."

Tomás took a step back. For the first time since he arrived, he felt he could breathe. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he regretted bringing that truth like a knife, but any words would sound false.

"Thank you," he whispered, before turning away.

As he walked away, he heard the faint creak of the gate closing behind him.

The return was silent. He didn't want to wait for the train, not after what had happened, not after the conversation with Delia. He took the first bus departing from San Sebastián and, although faster, the journey felt endless. Through the moisture-fogged glass, the fields and rooftops passed like faceless shadows. He leaned against the window, trying to close his eyes, but the turmoil in his chest gave him no respite.

He had done the right thing, or so he wanted to believe. He had done it for the professor, for his story, for the right to face the end without being completely alone. But then, why did he feel as if he had violated something sacred? Why did Delia's face, disfigured by the memory, keep appearing every time he closed his eyes?

And, as if that weren't enough, the empty train seat still followed him wherever he went. It didn't answer to the name of Soledad, but it occupied a space within him larger than he dared to admit.

When he arrived in the city, it was still early. The sky was covered with clouds, but it wasn't raining. The cold seemed to have settled like a silent guest in his bones. He walked without thinking too much, and without passing by his house, he headed straight to Big Root. He felt that if he didn't do something with his hands, if he didn't lose himself in the whirlwind of orders and boiling oil, he wouldn't be able to bear the weight of the day.

Upon arrival, he entered through the back door. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the heat of the kitchen hit him hard and jolted him out of his lethargy. The bustle was as usual, as if the world outside didn't exist.

Laura, who was organizing boxes next to the refrigerator, looked up, and her expression changed when she saw him.

"Tomás? I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"I finished earlier than I thought," he replied, without much energy. "And I thought maybe you could use an extra hand."

Laura wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at him.

"Yes... truthfully, we're overwhelmed today. Thanks for coming. Go change, please."

As he headed to the changing rooms, he heard Don Giorgio's firm voice in the background, giving orders from the griddle, like a general directing a squadron in the thick of battle. That routine, that concrete energy, anchored him. It was just what he needed.

The workday progressed with its usual frenzy. He peeled potatoes, chopped onions, cleaned vegetables, and served dishes without thinking. Everything seemed to flow with a monotonous, but calming, cadence.

Later in the afternoon, Laura asked him to take out one of the large garbage bags. He nodded silently, took off his gloves, and carried the heavy bag to the back. The cold outside hit his face as soon as he pushed the door open.

As he placed the bag in the dumpster, he turned to go back, but something on the other side of the street caught his attention.

A figure.

A woman with orange hair, like a lighthouse lit under the gray twilight. She walked arm-in-arm with a tall, strongly built man. They were laughing. They weren't kissing or touching with obvious intimacy, but their closeness spoke of something more.

Tomás felt his blood rush to his stomach.

His heart gave a treacherous leap.

Soledad.

Or someone extraordinarily similar to her.

He held his breath, his eyes fixed on the figure. He wanted to convince himself it was a coincidence, that it wasn't her, that his mind was playing tricks on him. But there was something in her walk, in the way she brushed her hair, in the barely perceptible laugh at that distance, that made everything fit. Too perfectly.

She had never mentioned him. Nothing about a boyfriend. Nothing about anyone else. She always said that everything between them was a game, a practice... Wouldn't it have been enough to be honest?

He closed his eyes for a second.

"It's just my imagination," he told himself. "She would have said something. She doesn't have to hide it. She never plays games with that."

But when he opened his eyes, they were gone. The figures had turned the corner and vanished as if they had never been there.

He was left alone facing the empty street. The breeze stirred his apron, and the back door of Big Root closed behind him with a soft thud.

He walked back to the kitchen as if nothing had happened. But deep down, that feeling wasn't going to leave him, like a glass that isn't yet broken, but is no longer whole.