—Iñaki… let me explain… —he said, approaching.
I took a step back.
Five years of my life had been a play.
And I, the most naive spectator.
I went to the wardrobe, took my wallet and put it in my pocket.
“Go,” I said calmly. “Keep the money. Consider it payment for a flawless performance.”
They fled like thieves caught in the act.
The house fell silent.
I sat down in the wooden chair.
It hurt. A lot.
But I also felt something unexpected: lightness.
That night I opened all the windows. I let the Puebla air carry away the smell of medicine, of lies, of the past.
I swept. I cleaned. I breathed.
The next day he would return to school.
He would still be Iñaki Salgado: a tired man, yes… but free.
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