Chapter Five: Here I Am, Wounded (#9)

The manuscript's submission deadline loomed with the precision of a relentless clock, and Tomás knew it. The Élan publishing house contest closed its submissions in less than a week, and although the manuscript was in its final version, there was always something more to polish, a comma to move, a word to choose better.

That's why, as so many times before, they ended up at Sofía's apartment. There was no alternative. According to her, "prying eyes are everywhere," and the last time they had tried to work in a cafe, a student had stared at them for so long that Sofía couldn't even hold her pen.

Tomás finished his shift at the Big Root in the mid-afternoon. The pace had been less hectic, but no less demanding. Before leaving, he wrapped two hamburgers with everything —Sofía's favorites— and took a couple of portions of fries with the last clean oil. He knew that if he didn't, she would simply say she wasn't hungry again and then end up drinking wine on an empty stomach.

When he arrived at the building, it was already late. He climbed the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the door, he knocked with the back of his hand, carrying the still-warm bag in the other. The door opened a few seconds later.

"You're just in time to save me from hunger or drunkenness," Sofía said as she opened it, leaning with one hand on the doorframe. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and the half-empty wine bottle rested on the kitchen counter. She was wearing a loose t-shirt and cotton pants that were clearly not meant for receiving visitors. Even so, she looked more alive than usual.

"Good thing I brought provisions," Tomás replied, holding up the bag. "If you're going to edit my manuscript under the influence of wine, at least let it be with a hamburger in hand."

"That sounded very romantic, in a decadent way," she joked, closing the door behind him.

They settled in the kitchen, as always. Tomás took out the hamburgers and placed them on the counter while Sofía looked for two glasses—one clean and one she quickly rinsed. When they finally sat down to eat, the silence was momentary, broken only by the rustling of the bags and the first bite.

"God," Sofía murmured, licking her fingers, "this is exactly what I needed."

"I knew it. I know you more than you admit."

"You know what's the worst part?" she said with a lopsided smile. "You're right."

They ate calmly, unhurriedly, while the manuscript lay open on the table, as if it too were taking a breather. When they finished, Tomás gently moved it closer, and both began to review the last corrections. Phrases that didn't flow quite right, words that could be more precise, even a metaphor that Sofía mercilessly crossed out.

"Too obvious. You can do better," she declared, without looking up.

Tomás nodded, resigned. She was his fiercest critic, but also his most honest.

They spent a couple of hours like that, engrossed in the text, in minor discussions, in unexpected laughter, in silences that needed no explanation. When they closed the manuscript, around ten at night, Sofía stretched in her chair as if a weight had been lifted from her chest.

"Well… it's done," she said, letting out a sigh.

"Does that mean I have your blessing?"

"You're missing a final sentence," she replied, in a teacher's voice. "And a title that doesn't sound like it's from a gothic rock song."

"'Echoes of Heresy' isn't that bad."

"I'm not saying it's bad. I'm saying it's pretentious," she took a sip of wine, with a teasing smile.

Tomás leaned back in his chair, tired, but content.

It was then that she looked at him more calmly. The warm light of the apartment softly illuminated his features. There was nothing spectacular or flashy about him, but there was something… true.

"I tried to write today," she said, suddenly.

Tomás raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Really?"

She nodded, as if the act of affirming it cost her effort. "One page. Maybe two. It's not a big deal. But the words came out… without hating them."

Tomás's face lit up as if he had just been given a gift. "Sofía… that's wonderful."

"Don't start with your premature celebrations," she interrupted, raising her hand. "I'm not saying I'm going to finish it, or even resume it. But… it was the first time in years that I didn't freeze in front of the cursor. Maybe"—she lowered her voice slightly—"maybe you have something to do with it."

Tomás didn't respond immediately. He looked at her with a mixture of tenderness and astonishment, knowing that for her, saying that was more intimate than any caress.

"It's enough for me to know that you started writing again," he said at last.

She held his gaze for a few seconds. Then, with a sigh, she stood up. "Well. Now I need more wine."

"No, you don't need it," Tomás stopped her, with a gentle smile. "But you can have more if you promise to save some for tomorrow."

She laughed. She approached and held out her glass. "You know I don't keep promises."

Tomás gently took it from her fingers and led her to the kitchen, trying to distract her. And without saying anything else, he began to wash the dishes. She, behind him, watched him in silence.

Her apartment no longer seemed so gloomy. It no longer smelled only of old wine and stale food. Now it smelled of warm food, of ink and paper, of that manuscript they had unraveled together. It smelled of presence. Of company.

And at that moment, she realized that something in her was changing. Slowly, but surely.

It wasn't just that he cooked for her, or took care of her, or pushed her to write again.

It was that, without knowing how or when, Tomás had become a part of her daily life.

And that… that scared her more than she could admit.

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The next day arrived with the unavoidable need to return to the hospital. Tomás couldn't stay away any longer. Something inside him—guilt, affection, uncertainty—pushed him back to that white room, where time stretched and contracted illogically.

He held hope between his fingers, wishing that Delia had returned to see her father. When he opened the door, his gaze fell upon the professor's pale face. Although he remained as thin as ever, something in his eyes shone with a different, calmer, deeper light.

"You look like you've seen God," Tomás commented with a half-smile, closing the door behind him.

The professor barely turned his head, with the slowness of one who no longer had strength to spare. "If He exists, I suppose He's given me an unexpected chance," he said in a rough, but serene, almost transparent voice.

Tomás sat on the stool beside the bed and rested his forearms on his knees. "I also bring good news," he added, and his smile grew a little.

"Then don't keep it to yourself, boy."

"I finished the manuscript for my novel. Just a few corrections we made yesterday with Sofía are left."

For an instant, the professor's eyes acquired an unusual clarity, as if the proximity of death had granted him a dose of lucidity that no doctor could explain. "I'm happy for you both," he said with genuine warmth. "I hope to get to read it. But, before it escapes me, let me give you a warning."

Tomás nodded. "Of course."

"Sofía is a good person," the professor began, in a low, but firm tone. "In more ways than one, you are alike. I've told you before. But listen to me, if you're going to play with a piece of glass, don't run away when it breaks."

Tomás's smile slowly faded, like light at the end of an afternoon. "You don't need to tell me that," he replied, restraining himself. "Do I look like someone who abandons his friends?"

"No," the professor said, looking at the ceiling with pained slowness. "You haven't abandoned a dying old man, how would you do that to someone you truly care about? But… no one can be everywhere at once, Tomás. And sometimes, unintentionally, things break."

Tomás wanted to change the subject. The weight of it gnawed at him from within. "Will your daughter… return?"

The professor looked at him again. His blue eyes, now veiled by illness, had not entirely lost their intensity. "Tomás… if there's one thing I've learned in this undeserved old age, it's that everything can be lost easily. Affection, health, lucidity, even the time you thought you had. You seem happy now… I've seen that she smiles more too. Feelings, when they're similar, get tangled. It's part of the game of being alive."

"But she's my professor," Tomás defended himself, like one who still needs a moral excuse to maintain his balance.

"I know that's what she says," the professor replied with a half-smile, something between tiredness and tenderness. "But when a wounded bird recovers its wings, it flies. And one must know when to let it go."

Tomás fell silent. It was what he had always sensed, what he didn't want to accept. "You can rest assured," he finally said. "I never expected it to be any other way."

"I hope so," the professor replied, reaching out his hand with effort. "Because when that happens… I probably won't be here to remind you."

Tomás looked up, caught between the words and the pain. "Don't say that, professor…"

"Listen to me this time," the old man interrupted, in a voice that seemed to rise from the depths of his soul. "If you manage to heal that little bird… if you help her fly… will you let her go?"

Tomás lowered his gaze. He felt an overwhelming weight in his chest. He knew tears wanted to break through, but he held them back with clenched teeth.

"Will you?" the professor insisted, as if he needed to hear it.

"I will," he finally said, his voice hoarse.

The professor smiled with a mixture of relief and sadness. "Some came to this world to heal others, Tomás… I just hope that kindness you give… is returned to you someday, but without pain."

Tomás couldn't help it. He rested his forehead on the professor's hand, like a child seeking refuge. He held back his tears as best he could.

"That's going to weigh on me…"

"I don't doubt it," the professor whispered. "And I'm sorry."

Tomás left the room as if he had run out of air. He needed oxygen, even if it was from the coffee vending machine. He put in the coins with trembling hands and received that dark, lukewarm, watery liquid like a false promise. Still, it served its purpose. The mediocre taste brought him back to reality a little.

When he returned to the room, the professor was looking out the window, though from his bed he could barely see more than a patch of sky.

"Do you think your daughter will come back?"

Krikket sighed heavily. "I want to believe it. We still have much to say to each other. If she doesn't come back, at least she's given me the chance to see her one last time… something I didn't deserve. And that… is more than I expected."

"Will you tell her mother anything?" Tomás asked, with a certain caution.

"I don't think so," he replied softly. "Why hurt her at this point? I wouldn't either. Some wounds… it's better not to open them again."

Tomás nodded slowly.

And for a few moments, silence settled in the room like a shroud, heavy but necessary, as if both understood that they were sharing the final edge of something very big, and that goodbyes weren't said with words, but with sustained presences.