A frigid breeze, strangely contrasting with the humid heat that still clung to the afternoon air, caressed Josephine's face as she walked along the cobblestone streets of that unfamiliar town. The stones resonated beneath her feet with a muffled echo, and the air, though heavy with tropical moisture, carried a delicate perfume of damp earth and the wild flowers that climbed the walls of the houses. Her hazel eyes, now larger and filled with a melancholic curiosity after weeks of isolation, lingered on every detail of that place that felt both familiar and completely alien: the houses painted in pastel tones faded by the sun, the neglected gardens where lush vegetation struggled to break through the weeds, the children who played carefree on the cracked sidewalks, their laughter resonating with a joy that Josephine felt distant.
But an unsettling sense of unreality hung over that place, raising goosebumps on her skin despite the heat. It was as if she had stepped into an old painting, into a landscape frozen in time, where the colors seemed too vivid and the shadows too still.
Further on, under the cool and protective shade of an imposing oak tree that stood majestically next to a small, peeling-walled school, a group of people had gathered. Their voices, muted and distant, reached Josephine's ears like a faraway murmur, a barely perceptible whisper in the expectant silence of the afternoon. As she passed in front of them, she felt an inexplicable need to greet them, a polite gesture that sprang from her as a reflex of her upbringing in another time.
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice soft and slightly trembling, barely audible above the song of the birds hidden among the oak's leaves.
The people turned slowly to look at her, their faces pale and their eyes empty, devoid of any brightness or recognition, as if her presence were transparent, as if they didn't really see her. Josephine felt a cold and sharp shiver run down her spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with the air temperature. Something fundamentally was not right in that place, an oppressive feeling of unreality enveloped her.
Then, amidst the indistinct murmur of voices, she heard one that was unmistakably familiar, a warm and sweet voice that had been a beacon of comfort in so many moments of her life, a voice that stopped her dead in her tracks, nailing her feet to the cobblestones.
"My dear princess," the voice said, laden with a melancholy that pierced her heart.
Josephine turned slowly, her heart pounding in her chest, desperately searching for the source of that sound that had pierced her like an icy needle. Among the multitude of pale and expressionless figures, she saw a beautiful woman with brown skin and long, jet-black hair, who looked at her with a sad smile full of infinite tenderness. Her dark eyes, filled with an unconditional love that had always comforted her, now shone with a palpable melancholy, transmitting to Josephine a contradictory wave of peace and a sharp pain that squeezed her chest.
Tears welled up in Josephine's eyes, blurring her vision until her aunt's figure became hazy. The melancholy for lost time, the nervousness at this unexpected apparition, and the deep sadness emanating from her aunt combined, creating a painful knot in her throat that prevented her from breathing normally. The beautiful woman approached slowly, moving with a spectral grace, effortlessly making her way through the other silent figures, her absent relatives, all deceased like her, who watched Josephine with infinite sadness in their empty eyes. She stopped right in front of her niece, and caressing her cheek with a touch as cold as ice, she said in a soft voice full of love, "Look how much you've grown, my beautiful princess. You are as beautiful as ever."
Josephine burst into tears, sobbing loudly at hearing her aunt's sweet voice, a voice she believed she would never hear again, and feeling the icy but familiar touch of her hand on her face. "Aunt..." she managed to say in a faint whisper, her voice barely audible through the lump of emotion that closed her throat.
The beautiful woman gently placed a finger on her lips, asking for silence with a sad but urgent look. "Listen to me carefully, Josephine," she said, her voice soft but firm, though with a hint of deep concern that Josephine felt to her core. "Someone very close to you will soon join us. Someone you love deeply."
Josephine felt an even more intense shiver run down her spine, a dark and icy premonition that squeezed her chest with a painful force. "Who, Aunt?" she asked, her voice trembling, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.
"I can't tell you his name now, my child," her aunt replied, her eyes filled with an infinite sadness that reflected an even greater pain. "In time, you alone will discover who it is. But I need you to say goodbye to him, yes? Go visit him, and don't be sad, my princess. He will be in a better place, far from suffering."
Josephine stood paralyzed, tears falling down her cheeks like rivers of pain and a growing confusion that drowned her. "What do you mean, Aunt?" she asked, her voice breaking, feeling a sharp fear at what was implied in her words. "What's happening?"
Her aunt smiled at her with a deep and resigned sadness, and her figure began to fade slowly, like a shadow vanishing into the darkness of twilight. "Remember, my princess," she said, her voice gradually fading, becoming a distant echo. "Don't cry, my child. He loved you very much... so very much."
And then, her aunt disappeared completely, along with all the other silent figures, the town with its pastel-colored houses, the imposing oak under which they had gathered, everything vanished like an illusion. And suddenly, Josephine felt the ground disappear beneath her feet, beginning to fall into a bottomless black abyss, the agony, the suffocation, and the panic of feeling a free and uncontrollable fall tormenting her with unbearable intensity.
I sat bolt upright in bed, the mattress yielding under the weight of my body soaked in cold sweat. A heart-wrenching scream, born from the deepest anguish, escaped my throat like a wounded animal, a howl of pain that echoed in the oppressive silence of the early morning, shattering the stillness of the room like broken glass. My eyes snapped open, wide and glassy, desperately searching in the darkness for something that wasn't there, a spectral presence that still lingered over me from the confines of the dream. My hands, trembling and cold as ice floes, rose instinctively to touch my cheeks, finding them wet, soaked in tears that wouldn't stop flowing, gushing uncontrollably as if a river of uncontainable pain overflowed from within me, dragging with it the last vestiges of my sanity.
I still felt the damp cold seeping into my skin, the persistent sensation of being immersed in that icy breeze from the dream. The sweet and earthy aroma of wild flowers mixed with the smell of damp earth remained latent in my nostrils, so vivid that it seemed real, as if the dream refused to leave me completely, clinging to me with invisible claws, weaving its threads of terror into reality. Terror enveloped me like an icy shroud, suffocating me, stealing my breath in small, painful spasms.
I squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand: 4:30 a.m. The deep darkness of the early morning intertwined with the even deeper darkness of my tormented mind, creating an oppressive and claustrophobic atmosphere that made me feel trapped in an endless nightmare. I ran my trembling hands over my face repeatedly, desperately trying to erase the wet traces of the terror that had invaded me, but only managed to spread the cold tears, turning them into a shimmering mask of pain and despair. The oppressive choking in my chest, the horrible visceral sensation of falling irremediably into a bottomless black abyss, persisted with terrifying intensity, even though I was sitting in the relative safety of my bed, in the stillness of the early morning.
The tears continued to fall, uncontrollable and unstoppable, as if my soul were silently bleeding through my eyes, releasing drop by drop the accumulated pain. Not again, I thought, with a silent and heart-wrenching cry resonating within me. Not another dream, not another death, please, my mind pleaded in a vain attempt to conjure the nightmare. The vivid image of my Aunt Mariela, her pale and serene face, her dark eyes full of infinite sadness and ancestral wisdom, her words laden with an ominous mystery and a chilling premonition, echoed in my mind like a deafening echo, amplifying my anguish to unbearable limits.
After a while that felt like an eternity of internal struggle, fighting to calm the sharp anxiety and the violent storm of emotions and sensations that shook my body like leaves in a storm, I finally got out of bed. My legs trembled uncontrollably beneath my weight, my steps were unsteady and hesitant, my body still shuddering from the last aftershocks of the dream terror. I walked towards my desk, like an automaton without a will of its own, my movements clumsy and slow, guided by a compulsive need. I took my diary from the pile of books, my fingers clinging to the worn leather covers as if it were the only lifeline in the middle of a raging sea of pain and confusion.
I began to write in my diary, the tip of the pen scratching the paper with a feverish urgency. Word by word, I tried to capture the vivid nightmare, every detail of the spectral town, every pale face, every syllable of my Aunt Mariela's voice. My tears, hot and salty, fell onto the pages, blurring the ink, turning my words into a silent testimony of my anguish, into a choked cry of despair that only the paper could hear. Each written word was a pang of pain, each phrase a somber reminder of the fragility of life, of the unsuspected nearness of death.
I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. 6:00 a.m. My eyes, still red and swollen from recent crying, fixed on the bright numbers, searching in them for an answer, an explanation for the oppression I felt in my chest. How was it possible that time had run so fast since the abrupt awakening? It felt as if an eternity of terror and confusion had seized me in those few hours of darkness. Yet, the pain persisted, sharp and real, like a cold dagger plunged into my soul.
Only a few hours remained before returning to my home, to my life, to the reality I had left suspended. On Monday morning, I had classes at the university, and the plane trip was long and exhausting, a prospect that now felt distant and insignificant. Today would be my last day in this mansion, a place that, despite its opulence, had become a gilded prison for my spirit. I decided that I would finish my cleaning tasks as soon as possible, with an almost desperate urgency to escape this place laden with painful memories and the ominous presence of Andrés, to flee the ghosts that danced in the corners of my mind.
I got out of bed, my body still trembling and my mind clouded by confusion and fear. I walked to the bathroom, where I washed my face with cold water, trying in vain to erase the traces of recent crying. I dressed in my work uniform, feeling the rough fabric against my skin as a tangible reminder of the reality that awaited me, of the facade of normalcy I had to maintain. I combed my long golden hair into a tight braid, trying to put a minimum of order in the emotional chaos I felt inside.
Once ready, I went downstairs slowly, my heart pounding in my chest, each beat an echo of the anguish of the dream. I grabbed my headphones from the nightstand, seeking refuge in music, and started playing random songs, with the vain hope of distracting my mind, of warding off the disturbing images of the dream that had tormented me during the night.
I entered the living room, where my parents were sitting in the velvet armchairs, having their morning tea and conversing in low voices. I greeted them politely, my voice muffled and barely audible, and began my cleaning tasks, moving around the room like an automaton, my hands performing the actions mechanically while my mind remained trapped in the nightmare. Suddenly, a melody resonated in my ears through the headphones, an unexpected song, a melody that instantly transported me to another time, another place: "Nadie es eterno" ("No one is eternal"), performed by the unmistakable voice of Darío Gómez.
The first notes of the song froze me in my tracks, the dust cloth halted mid-motion. Tears began to well up in my eyes without warning, uncontrollable, as if an internal dam had broken under the force of an overwhelming emotion. That song... my beloved godfather, a good and simple man whom I loved like a second father, always jokingly said not to play it at family gatherings until the day he was gone. An icy shiver ran through my body from head to toe. The image of the dream, the sweet and sad voice of my Aunt Mariela, her words laden with a somber premonition, resonated with a chilling force in my mind. I looked towards my mother, who was sitting on the sofa with the phone in her hand, and I saw her fade before my eyes, her once serene face now contorted by an expression of acute and uncontrollable pain.
I didn't need to ask. In that instant, I knew with a painful certainty that cut my breath short. Tears wouldn't stop falling, blurring my vision. I took off my headphones with trembling hands and approached my parents, my voice breaking with the sobs that began to shake my body. "My godfather..." I managed to whisper, the word barely a thread of voice.
My father looked at me, his face expressionless, hard as granite, as if carved from stone. "His brother found him... dead... next to his bed this morning," he said with a chilling calmness, a coldness in his voice that froze my blood more than any night breeze.
I couldn't comprehend how he could tell me something like that with such coldness, with such emotional distance. He had been like my father, the only one who gave me unconditional love, the only one who truly believed me and took the time to listen to my dreams and my fears. I fell to my knees on the Persian rug, sobbing loudly, unable to contain the torrent of pain that tore my soul apart, a pain so intense that I felt my chest would break in two.
My mother, who until a moment ago seemed shocked and on the verge of collapse, wiped her tears with a brusque gesture and grabbed my arm with inhuman strength, pulling me up. "Stop crying at once, Josephine," she ordered me in a harsh and cold voice like steel. "Go pack your things. We're leaving in an hour."
I vaguely heard her order someone on the phone to prepare our private jet. Without waiting any longer, I ran upstairs to my room, obeying her order without question, feeling the world I knew crumbling around me, leaving only an icy void.
I ran to my room, my legs still trembling slightly from the shock of the news, but now propelled by an urgent need to escape. My eyes fell on the suitcase, almost full for a few days now, when the anticipation of departure was a mixture of relief and nervousness. Now, the urgency was different, tinged with a sharp pain and the visceral need to surround myself with the familiarity of my home.
My hands, though still trembling, moved with mechanical efficiency, gathering the few things that still lay scattered on the bed and desk. The small toiletries bag, the half-read book that I had tried to use as a distraction on the sleepless Parisian nights, the worn leather-bound diary that now contained so much pain and so much hope. Each object I packed was a small closing of this dark chapter, one more step towards the exit.
My tears continued to fall, though now with a slower cadence, like a constant drip of sadness. The pain of my godfather's loss was a cold pang in my chest, a void that the immediacy of departure could not fill. What would it be like to return home without him? His warm voice, his wise advice, his unconditional support... all of that was gone.
An hour later, with the suitcase finally closed and a tight knot in my throat, I stood on the threshold of the mansion. The farewell from my sister, Camille, and Annelise was a cold and distant exchange, their gazes empty, their gestures mechanical. My little nieces, with their normally bright and curious eyes, looked at me with a childish sadness that broke my heart, even though they didn't fully understand the magnitude of my loss. There was no genuine warmth, no sincere hug, only the palpable indifference of Esperanza and the awkward presence of her husband, my brother-in-law.
"Aren't they coming?" I asked in a thread of voice, disbelief fighting against the growing rage.
My sister avoided my gaze, her face expressionless. "We have commitments," was her curt reply, a phrase that sounded hollow and cruel in the silence of the farewell. Camille and Annelise approached timidly, hugging my legs with their small arms.
"Aunt Jojo, are you coming back soon?" Camille asked, her voice a trembling whisper.
"We're going to miss you," Annelise added, her eyes filling with tears.
I knelt down to hug them tightly, feeling their small bodies tremble. "I'm going to miss you very much too, my girls," I said, my voice breaking.
My brother-in-law approached and placed a hand on my shoulder. His touch, though brief, produced a pang of discomfort, a fleeting memory of his insistent glances and ambiguous comments in the previous weeks. His gaze dropped for an instant, lingering on my neckline before returning to my eyes with a forced smile that didn't reach his dark eyes.
"Take care, Josephine," he said in a voice that tried to sound kind, but which to me resonated with an unsettling falseness. I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder lightly before he withdrew it, leaving me with a sticky feeling of distaste.
I turned abruptly, feeling tears burn my eyelids and a knot of rage and impotence closing my throat. There was nothing more to say. My parents were already waiting for me inside the car, their figures rigid in the back seat. I said goodbye to my nieces with a last caress and got into the car, feeling the coldness of the leather pierce my clothes. The driver closed the door, and the engine purred, driving us away from the imposing mansion that had been my gilded prison.
The journey to Charles de Gaulle Airport took place in an oppressive silence, charged with a tacit tension. I looked out the window, watching the gray rooftops of Paris blur in the distance, the city lights flickering like cold stars. The airport, with its impersonal bustle and its atmosphere of constant transit, felt like a non-place, a space between the darkness I was leaving behind and the uncertainty that awaited me.
In the VIP lounge, my parents waited with barely concealed impatience. There were no words of comfort, no hug, only the coldness of their silence.
"The jet is ready," my father announced, his voice flat and emotionless.
I nodded silently, my throat feeling too tight with pain. I walked towards the private boarding gate, feeling like a ghost, following their steps without thinking. We boarded the jet, the opulence of the interior contrasting painfully with the emptiness I felt. The hours-long flight to my home loomed long