The silence spread through the room.
I didn't know how to respond to him.The very idea that "nothing would happen" was hard for me to process.
I had worked two jobs because my grandparents needed help.I had set my dreams aside, postponing a different future.And suddenly… did it not matter what I studied? Which school I chose? How hard I tried?
If nothing happened…what had I been worrying about all that time?
—I'm sorry, but I can't accept that —I said, gripping the armrest tightly—. If I hadn't worked before, what do you think would've happened to the people I love? Tell me.
—I don't know your situation, miss —he replied, raising a hand to create distance—. But tell me something: when would you stop? How long would you keep helping? Who decides that?
—I… —I swallowed— when they're ready.
—And when will that be?
I didn't answer.
—Another question —he continued—. If you decided to do something different with your life, could you handle it, or would you feel tied down?
His voice rose slightly—not harsh, but heavy.
—I'm not saying things wouldn't be difficult or uncomfortable —he added—. But that doesn't mean you can't change. They didn't ask you directly for help, did they?
—No…
—Did they ask you to give up your dreams?
—No —I answered this time more firmly.
—That's the point.
He smiled faintly.
—That day, for the first time, I felt free. I could rest for a moment. Have a life. I could speak. It was as if I'd been tied up for years… and suddenly someone loosened the rope.
His words hit my chest.
If I had made different decisions…what would my life have been like these past four years?Would I have been happier?
I didn't know what to do with that thought, but the interview had to continue.
—But then… —I said— let's get to the point. You died. Why did you die right when you were supposed to have reached that freedom?
I was looking for a contradiction. A mistake.
—I'm not saying I did everything right —he replied, exhaling, smiling toward the camera—. But at that moment I realized things mattered less than I thought. And I decided to do something I never would've done before: risk my life.
He shifted in his seat.
—I lived in a small town, on the edge of the state. We weren't more than three hundred people.
—Not that small —I commented.
—Well, maybe —he laughed—. Most were elderly. In a few years it probably would've disappeared. But one day, an armed group came to collect protection money. It wasn't common… but it happened.
—That must've been scary —I said.
—In other towns, yes. We already knew what to do. Many of us were armed to some extent.
He paused.
—I don't usually get involved. I'm not brave. I don't even know if I'm a good person. Just… decent, maybe. I never had time to find out.
His voice lowered.
—In the middle of the gunfire and screaming, I saw a girl about fourteen years old, curled up between two cars. She wasn't directly in the line of fire, so I went to her. I don't remember what we talked about… I only know I got her out of there.
—Is that when you died? —I asked.
—No —he replied, smiling tiredly—. Strangely enough, no.
The chat went silent.
—We were crouched on the ground. The dirt scraped our hands and knees. We crawled until we were far enough away.
He sighed.
—The girl's name was Melani. She described her parents to me. There were only two hardware stores in town… so I knew almost everyone. I was going to take her to them when it happened.
He fell quiet.
—What happened? —I asked.
—I was shot. Friendly fire —he said, pointing to his chest—. A man around forty-five shot me… three to five times.
My stomach tightened.
—I fell to the ground. The girl screamed. The man came closer, asked if she was okay… I lost consciousness. I think he was a relative.
He lowered his hand.
—She was crying. He turned pale, told her not to say anything… and that was it. That was my end.
I didn't say anything.I just looked at the chat.
So unfairHe shouldn't be angryThis is too bitterStay strong, Queso
I didn't know how to comfort someone who had died like that.
—I'm sorry… maybe it was hard —I finally said.
—Don't worry —he replied—. I'm not angry. Just tired.
He leaned back slightly.
—I spent most of my life worrying about things I never chose. Ideas, beliefs, fears… just to end like this. And then I understood something: I was responsible for giving myself the life I wanted.
He looked at me.
—I'm not talking about exaggerating. I'm talking about deciding what truly matters. Or rather… what matters to me.
Then he pointed at me.
—The problem isn't having lived that way for so many years. The problem is that I didn't choose it. Now tell me… what you're doing—did you choose it?
—I guess so —I replied, fiddling with my fingers under the table—. I wanted something better… and that's how I ended up here.
—Perfect —he nodded—. That's the charm. When you choose how to live, even the way you die stops being a mistake. It's just… the result of a chosen life.
I watched him.
—But you look tired —I commented, pointing at the deep dark circles under his eyes.
—I took too many years to understand it —he admitted—. Sometimes freedom isn't doing what you want… but deciding what you don't want to do.
At that moment, soft music filled the room.
—It's sad to end the interview, but our time is up —announced the deep voice—. We hope our listeners enjoyed it.
—Now, one last thing —it continued—. If you could leave only three messages for future generations, what would they be?
The man thought for a moment, scratching one of his bullet holes.
—One: stop for a moment. At least once a week. Ask yourselves whether what you're doing… was chosen by you.
—Two: you won't always be able to choose what you want to do, but you can always choose what you don't want to do.
—Three: don't worry so much about what surrounds you. Believe me… the universe doesn't stop for anyone. We're just another note. So decide carefully what matters to you.
He stood, made a small bow, and somehow pulled out a small town hat.
The door behind him was not the same one he'd entered through.
It was black, carved with green symbols.When he opened it, dark mist spread… and he disappeared into it.
I stayed silent.
When I looked up, the door was gone. Everything looked normal.But I knew it wasn't.
I knew I had seen something else.I knew that, most likely… it had been a gate to the Underworld.
Then something climbed out of my backpack and sat on the table.
—How do you feel? —Iztli asked, playing with my hair.
—I don't know —I answered honestly—. I guess fine… but something moved here —I touched my chest.
—Let's go home —he said, offering his arm.
I took it without thinking.
We left the building. It was four-thirty in the morning. We waited for the first subway train. Iztli escorted me, but I wasn't paying attention to anything.
—What do you think of the guest? —he asked.
—I'm not sure —I admitted—. But something he said… makes sense. Does what we do really matter that much if nothing changes?
Iztli squeezed my hand slightly.
—I don't agree —he said—. I think our actions do matter. They affect others, like ripples. I descend from a clan. I have responsibilities. And I'm proud of them.
—Did you ever want to live differently? —I asked, looking into his eyes, searching for something more.
—No —he replied calmly—. Honestly, no.
The subway arrived, wind lifting my hair.
—I guess we're different —I said, looking at the moon while holding onto his arm.