The morning was gray. One of those days where the sky can't decide whether to cry or smile.
Tomás walked through the hospital corridors with silent steps, carrying in his backpack the weight of many difficult weeks. The combination of endless days at the Big Root—now that Don Giorgio was taking more frequent breaks—and relentless hours of studying had left him exhausted. But still, he remained steady.
The literary contest was closing its submissions in a few days. His manuscript was already sent, bound, delivered. Nothing else could be done. All that was left was to wait.
And that waiting hurt too.
But that day he wasn't going to the hospital for the contest. That day was different.
Upon entering the room, he knew immediately. The air was thicker, as if time itself had stopped, fearing to disturb the moment.
Professor Emanuel Krikket was sitting up in bed, the blanket up to his waist and the book resting on his lap. "Seasons of Solitude." His vision wasn't as clouded as other times. Seeing Tomás enter, he offered a weak but warm smile, one of those that need no words.
Tomás pulled the stool next to the bed and sat down without taking off his backpack.
"Did you like... the book?" he asked softly, almost fearful.
The professor nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the pages.
"I've read it more than once," he murmured. "And I will as long as I have the strength. But the epilogue... that epilogue is a dagger and a caress at the same time."
Tomás looked down, his fingers touching the edge of the stool.
"That epilogue was just for you," he said.
"I know."
There was a long pause. Outside, someone pushed a cart down the hallway, but everything else was silent.
"Sometimes," Tomás continued, "I wonder if this is our last season together. I don't know if there's anything after, I don't know if there's an autumn for you or if this is your last spring... But if it is, I'll stay until the end. I promise."
The professor turned his face towards him. His eyes, tired and somewhat sunken, shone with a softness that came not from the body, but from the soul.
"You're here, Tomás. You're with me. That's already staying until the end."
They talked for a long time. Of books, of authors, of those old days when the professor taught in crowded auditoriums. Of his first impressions upon seeing Sofía enter the classroom as a messy teenager. Of the day Tomás first came to his classes, so quiet, so elusive, and how from then on he knew there was something different about him.
"The world needs people like you," Krikket whispered at one point. "Not because you write well, though that too, but because you know how to stay."
When the professor's voice began to fade, Tomás noticed his breathing becoming more shallow.
"I'll get some coffee," he said, standing up carefully. "Do you want one?"
Krikket gently shook his head.
"I'm just going to close my eyes for a moment. Go ahead."
Tomás delicately adjusted the blanket around him, as if fearing to break him, and left for the vending machine. Coins dropped with a metallic clink. The cup descended. The liquid began to flow with a murmur.
The smell of hot coffee brought him a false sense of normalcy for a moment.
He took the cup and returned, thinking of reading something from the epilogue aloud, perhaps sharing another of those silences that only with him felt so complete.
But upon opening the room door, everything changed.
Time stopped.
The book was still in his hands, open to the last pages. His fingers rested on the epilogue. His head, slightly tilted to the side, and his lips... formed a small smile. A smile Tomás recognized instantly. It was the smile of someone who found something worthwhile.
For a second, he didn't understand what he was seeing. He stood there, coffee in hand, waiting for the professor's chest to rise, for his eyes to blink, for him to say something.
But nothing happened.
The coffee trembled in his hand, and in an instant, the cup fell to the floor. The hot liquid spread across the tiles like a slow, silent, inevitable stain.
And then he knew.
The air left his lungs violently.
Tomás leaned a hand on the doorframe, the other trembled at his side. A wave of cold swept over him from the nape of his neck to his legs. His entire body refused to accept what his heart already understood.
The room was peaceful. As if it had been chosen by fate for that final act.
And Tomás cried.
Not like a child. Not like a man. He cried as one cries for someone who not only taught you things but held you when you didn't know how to walk.
He cried for all that the professor was, for all he gave him, and for what they would never share again.
For that epilogue he could no longer discuss with him.
For that final smile he couldn't return.
He approached the bed with uncertain steps and sat beside him.
He took his hand, now cold. And he held it, as if he could give back some of the warmth he had always offered.
"Thank you... for staying until the end," Tomás whispered, his voice shattered.
The book fell softly onto the blanket. Tomás picked it up with trembling hands, clutched it to his chest, and closed his eyes.
And the world, for an instant, became a much lonelier place.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sky was dressed in gray, but it wasn't raining. A soft mist covered the meadows of Parque Memorial, that modern cemetery where concrete and nature intertwined with a sober, almost elegant aesthetic. It wasn't a place that seemingly evoked sadness, but Tomás felt that the silence there weighed much heavier than anywhere else.
He had arrived early, more out of necessity than protocol. He didn't want to see people arrive, just observe from afar, as if being too present there might break something inside him. He positioned himself under the shade of a tall tree, set apart from the main group.
Professor Emanuel Krikket's funeral, against all odds, had gathered many people.
Former students, colleagues, former department heads, faces Tomás didn't know yet who spoke with familiarity about this man whom he had loved in silence like a mentor, like a father. Sofía was among them, not in a corner, but right near the coffin, with that contained and solemn expression she adopted when something affected her more than she wanted to show.
As a professor. As a former student. As someone he had also saved, long ago.
Tomás didn't approach.
He shouldn't.
He had shared the professor's last days, his last confidences, his final smiles. He had had the privilege of reading to him, of accompanying him when no one else did. That was his, and his alone. He didn't need to occupy a visible place to validate that love.
The murmur of conversations floated in the air. Some spoke of the professor's classes, his lessons, his dry sense of humor, and his academic rigor. There were many flowers, perhaps too many. It seemed like a farewell to a great academic, not to the fragile and generous man who had listened to him speak of his deceased mother, who had caressed his shoulder when he trembled, who had told him his book was beautiful, even if it was never published.
"That man left everything ready before he left," Tomás thought, with a mixture of tenderness and awe.
That was him. He had organized his own farewell without telling anyone. No one had to rush or call or decide anything. Everything was arranged, every detail taken care of.
That too was love.
Tomás observed the coffin with his hands in his pockets. He had imagined a more intimate, even sadder goodbye. But now, seeing the number of people who had come, he felt something different. Something that wasn't quite resentment, but was close to it.
None of them went to see him.
None had been there while the professor slowly faded, amidst whispers and pages. No one, except Sofía, had accompanied him when his breath began to grow scarce and his voice was a distant echo.
But it wasn't the time for that.
Perhaps that's how it should be. Perhaps a farewell full of words and flowers was better than an empty room with two or three people in silence. Maybe the professor knew it.
The officiant spoke of legacy, of teaching, of lives touched by knowledge. Sofía listened attentively.
Tomás kept his gaze down, because he couldn't look at the coffin without feeling that the air was denied to him.
When it was time to lay flowers, some passed in silence. Others cried. An elderly woman, a former principal of the school, left a carefully folded letter. An old student placed a book with a dedication.
Tomás brought nothing.
Only the weight in his chest.
He didn't cry. It wasn't the place. It wasn't the moment.
The professor wouldn't have wanted that.
So he just closed his eyes for an instant, pressed his lips together, and thanked him silently.
Thank you for waiting for him. Thank you for reading his book to the end. Thank you for not letting go of his hand.
When it was all over, he stayed a few more minutes, his hands still, his body motionless, as if that could sustain his presence a little longer. Sofía didn't see him. Or perhaps she did, but said nothing. Each person mourned in their own way.
Finally, Tomás turned, put his hands in his pockets, and walked away slowly.
Behind him, he left a pile of flowers, a crowd of people, and a light wooden coffin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That afternoon, as if an invisible thread guided them in the same direction, Tomás walked silently through the still-cold streets, a cloth bag hanging from his arm. Inside, just a few fresh vegetables, enough for a light soup and a simple salad. Nothing fancy. Just warm food. A bit of normalcy that could soothe the pain.
He was heading to Sofía's apartment when his phone vibrated.
A message.
"Can you come?"
Just that.
There was no explanation, no preamble.
But he didn't need one.
He was already on his way.
When he arrived, Sofía opened the door with a soft smile. It wasn't one of those charming or playful smiles. It was fragile, barely held by the weight of a serene sadness. Still, it was there, as a way of saying "thank you for coming" without having to utter the words.
"You came."
"I was on my way when you texted," he replied, his voice low, as if they were inside a church.
Sofía stepped away from the doorframe and let him in.
"Did you bring anything?"
"Just a couple of things," he lifted the bag. "I was thinking soup. Something light."
She nodded. Said nothing more. But that silent approval was enough.
Tomás moved around the kitchen as if it were his own, with the familiarity of someone who no longer needs to ask permission. He took out the vegetables, lit the stove, cut in silence. Sofía, for her part, stayed with a cup of tea in her hands. No wine that night. Nothing to cloud her mind.
"What did you think of the funeral?" she finally asked, from the table.
Tomás took a moment to reply.
"More crowded than I would have expected," he simply said.
"He wouldn't have wanted it that way."
"No," Tomás agreed, stirring the soup. "But it wouldn't have bothered him either... if he knew how many people remembered him fondly."
Sofía took a sip of tea. Something indefinable shone in her eyes: sorrow, nostalgia, and a deep gratitude.
"It was good that you were with him until the end."
Tomás didn't respond. He just looked down at the pot.
The rest of the conversation flowed with a strange calm. They talked about small things, about what Laura had told him about the restaurant, about how Daniela had started bringing her own snacks to school. Sofía shared an anecdote from her classes, some student who had made a grammatical blunder, and Tomás laughed as always, more for her than for the joke.
But everything had a soft, contained tone. As if an invisible blanket covered their words, and in the air, the loss was palpable.
When night fell and the steaming soup had vanished from their plates, Sofía didn't let him go. She didn't say it aloud, but her hand, which firmly rested on Tomás's, spoke for her. She didn't let go.
And Tomás understood.
He asked no questions. Offered no explanations. He just stayed by her side, in silence. With the minutes, the silences grew longer, but also more comfortable. More shared.
Past midnight, Sofía leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. She was tired.
Tomás carefully got up, helped her to her feet, and accompanied her to her bedroom. Like so many times before.
He covered her with the blankets, with the delicacy with which one covers a still-open wound. He leaned towards her, and with the back of his fingers, he caressed her face, pushing back a lock of hair that fell over her forehead.
Sofía didn't open her eyes. She didn't want to talk. She just wanted to feel him there.
And he, as always, understood.
He leaned in a little more and kissed her forehead. Not as a routine. Not as a habit.
But with a tenderness that burned on his lips, as if he knew that this gesture, repeated over and over, was the most intimate way he could tell her, "I am with you."
"Rest," he whispered, his voice broken from so much restraint.
Sofía didn't respond, but her lips curved slightly, barely, like a sigh.
Tomás stood for a few more seconds, watching her. Every part of him wanted to sit beside her, to stay until sleep fully enveloped her. But he knew he had to leave. That if he stayed, he wouldn't know how to leave afterward.
He turned and walked towards the door. But before leaving, she, without opening her eyes, extended her hand, as if remembering something.
Tomás returned.
He took her hand.
She held it firmly. Then, as if that were the true ritual, she pointed to her forehead.
Don't forget me.
Don't leave without that.
Tomás leaned in once more and kissed her forehead, but this time he held his lips there longer.
An eternal instant.
A burning coal.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes were shining, but he said nothing.
He left the apartment with soft steps, as if his footsteps weighed more than ever.
Sofía, still under the blankets, felt the echo of his steps in the hallway. Each one of them pierced her chest.
And when everything fell silent, she murmured to the ceiling:
"Thank you for staying."
And though he no longer heard her, she knew that, in some way, he always did.