I turned around slowly.
Don Ernesto stood near the trash can on the terrace. In his hands, he held a black plastic bag.
In all the years I had lived in that house, he had been the quiet one. He rarely spoke. He didn’t get involved. Most of the time, he sat outside in his wooden chair, reading the newspaper or watering his plants.
Sometimes I wondered if he even noticed what was happening around him.
He looked at me for a few seconds before speaking again.
“Since you’re leaving… take this bag and throw it away at the corner, will you?”
He lifted the bag slightly.
“It’s just trash.”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
Out of everything he could say… that was what he chose?
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