Through the streets of the historic center, the woman walked accompanied by that small boy—an odd child, to be precise. At times, he looked about eight or nine years old; other times, he seemed closer to thirteen, perhaps a little less. They didn't hold hands, not even when crossing the street, yet they remained inseparable—always together.
Suddenly, the boy stopped, and so did the woman.
"This is the place," he said.
She paused, let out a small huff, and asked whom they had come to see.
The boy raised his arm and, pointing with his finger, directed her gaze toward a person sitting on a bench across the street.
It was a ghastly bald man, emaciated, resembling a terminal patient or the survivor of some failed medical experiment. Except for the fire in his gaze—those burning black eyes—he looked like a soul on the verge of abandoning its body.
The phone inside the musical instrument shop behind them rang unexpectedly, and the shopkeeper, irritated, yelled:
"Hello? Hello?"
The woman rolled her eyes toward the sky, cast another glance at the boy, and, unconvinced, crossed the street without looking to either side. Cars barely missed her, brushing past, but she didn't even flinch.
Upon reaching the other side, she saw the man staring at a jewelry store, where the clerk was answering the ringing phone, though no one seemed to be on the other end.
"It's the ghost," she joked with a coworker, chuckling.
Noticing the woman standing in front of him, the man lifted his gaze and met hers. Startled, he locked eyes with her.
"He's not here. He's not here. Go away and let the dead rest in peace."
Across the street, the boy clung to a telephone booth, watching the woman.
Raindrops began to fall, lightly at first, tapping against the awnings of parked cars and leaving damp imprints on the asphalt.
The man sat up, visibly nervous, perhaps excited—maybe even angry.
"Excuse me...?"
"You heard me. It's over. Leave the dead alone."
The man glanced at the boy, then at those standing behind him. He was about to say something when the phone in the jewelry store rang again.
"Pick it up; it must be Miguel," one of the clerks told the other. But when they lifted the receiver, no voice came through.
Just as he was about to speak, a police radio crackled behind him, making him turn. An officer was checking his device, responding briefly before tucking it away.
"Good afternoon. Everything alright here?"
A swarm of flies suddenly swarmed around the man, causing him to flail his hands. The insects circled the officer without touching him, merely instilling a sense of revulsion before rising into the gray clouds, heavy with imminent rain.
The man on the bench adjusted his clothes and brushed off the lingering sensation of insects on his skin. He was about to say something, but the woman beat him to it, assuring the officer that everything was fine.
A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a thunderclap that silenced them all. Then, the rain began to fall in earnest, as if granted permission by the storm itself.
"The rain's about to come down hard," the officer said, shrugging as if shielding himself within an invisible shell. "You'd better find cover."
The man shot one last glance at the woman before heading toward the Allende metro station. She retraced her steps, crossing back toward the boy, who stood alone, hiding behind a post as if seeking shelter.
"Will he come back, ma'am?" the boy asked as they reunited.
The woman sighed.
"In my experience, those bastards always return to the places where they unleashed hell."
"Why?"
"When everything ends, they always crave more. And revisiting those places gives them a feeling similar to what they felt when committing their crimes... until it's no longer enough, and they feel the urge to do it all over again."
"..."
"This is a dream, isn't it, my boy?"
"Yes..."
She gave him a sad smile, and together, they walked home.