¿Just one... silhouette?

Foto de Flaviu Costin en Unsplash

They say rain brings fresh air the next morning. But no one ever wonders if it brings something more with it—at least not in this house of shadows and murmurs. Last night, I heard the first cries against the wall, as usual. I sat on my bed for a long time, listening to the sobs, without fully understanding the reason behind such trembling and… pathetic weeping.

I didn’t look at the exact time on the clock beside the bed, but I knew it must have been past midnight. The whimpers went on for endless minutes while the reflection before me returned the silhouette of a weary face—pensive, with two violet hollows beneath the eyes exposing the exhaustion of recent days. And beneath it all: the rain. The echo of a faraway thunderclap made the windowpanes tremble under the gray damask curtains, causing the hem to sway in a startled shiver. Something unusual.

The dim lamp barely carved stone-like shadows upon the concrete ceiling and lime-plastered walls. The cold crept in like a languid serpent beneath the thin strip of light under the cedar door. And amid that desolate scene… the sobbing again. Every night. Every dawn. Yet no one answers. You may be wondering who could be crying like that, or even whether I have tried to uncover the source of those laments.

Perhaps some might think this is a tale of ghosts or missing souls (or returned ones, for that matter). Perhaps they believe it’s the sort of story one tells for this festive season. Everyone is free to imagine. But no celebration is required to delve into the unknown or into what sends a shiver down one’s spine. This is not your seasonal tale. This is the story of beings whose names are forgotten and exiled to the remotest corners of memory—until the lashes of recollection can no longer sweep enough to bring them up in a stray conversation at a family dinner.

—“Ana… Ana…” A very common name, I thought, when the voice on the other side of the wall whispered between sobs drowned by the storm. The raindrops drummed against the plastic skylights while the fleeting light of lightning spread over them for an instant, only to vanish in the next. —“Ana… Ana…” There it was again. Who was Ana? And could I build a story from her name? Could I write something that chilled the blood with those three letters escaping from another’s lips?

Then… I felt it. A sudden shift beneath the blankets and a trembling of the window glass. The curtain moved once more—but not because of thunder or storm. A trail of cold breath escaped my mouth, my fingers trembled, and the mirror at the foot of the bed began to fog. The lamplight was consumed by the shadows swallowing the room. Little by little, drowsiness wrapped me in the wings of a dream-world where I hoped those irritating cries would cease. Yet, just on the threshold of sleep, I heard a guttural scream, full of rage contained within those masonry walls:

—“Ana!”

Nothing else followed.

The next morning, standing on the street admiring the clear blue sky, with the cobblestones freshly washed by the night’s rain, I couldn’t help sliding my gaze toward the black ribbon pinned to my neighbor’s door. An old, decrepit man with a reputation for cruelty toward his wife—his appearance that of a walking skeleton with a skittish gaze whenever seen outdoors. He hadn’t been spotted in two days. The dogs, who used to wander the sidewalks, seemed livelier now that the cane he raised against them was gone. Two women, dressed in mourning gowns with shawls over their heads, walked past me, too absorbed in their conversation to notice my presence. The taller one whispered to her companion:

—“Did you know his wife died a year ago, around this very time?”

The other shook her head, her gaze cast downward, as though she already knew that man’s soul was far beneath redemption.

—“They say she told him before she died: ‘Wait one month before following me. One month. And then you will cry my name.’”

—“Superstitions,” scoffed the other, as they sat on the curb before the ribbon-marked door. The tall one disagreed.

—“I’m telling you it’s true. She said it. Out of revenge, they say—for all the years he kept her under his heel.”

—“But I live right behind the old man’s house,” replied the second, “and I never heard a thing this past month.”

The taller woman crossed herself, both gazing at the sky as if hoping God would have mercy on the man whose wife had cursed him on her deathbed.

I went back inside my home, ignoring the rest of their chatter. I had heard enough. Last night marked one month since I first heard that sorrowful call: —“Ana… Ana…”. So yes… the rain brings more than just fresh air. Sometimes it brings cries disguised as torment.

Now I understand:

the silhouette in the mirror…

was not mine.