REMI MARLOWE

I had a strange sensation of drifting, as if I were between sleep and wakefulness. But when I finally recovered my senses, that pleasant sensation completely vanished.

I stopped abruptly when I realized I was wandering aimlessly under the sunset.

—Why am I walking here? —I asked myself while confused, looking from side to side.

I was in a place slightly removed from the habitable zone, but from my position, I could recognize that I was still within the city limits. Roswell, this beautiful bucolic city surrounded by vegetation that rose majestically at the foot of the mountains, represented the very essence of this land. Among the wealthy, Roswell was famous for its exclusive summer houses and villas.

I vividly remembered how in spring the landscape transformed into a visual feast of multicolored flowers; how in summer the imposing waterfall attracted those seeking refuge from the heat; the spectacle of autumn with its rain of leaves that moved even the hardest soul; and the sepulchral serenity that winter brought with it. The seasons manifested here with such clarity that any tourist would be captivated regardless of the time of year.

The villas, built in perfect harmony with the mountain town, were wooden cabins painted in various tones. From the most modest to the most sumptuous, all shared an exorbitant price - owning a property here was an undisputed synonym of wealth.

The main street was brimming with tourist shops and on weekends came alive with crowds and ambient melodies. Despite its rural location, the commercial variety rivaled any urban center. Most opted to build in the city itself; choosing another site made you a rarity.

While trying to locate myself, the landscape seemed vaguely familiar. I didn't believe I had drunk so much as to lose consciousness, my mind was clear and I maintained my balance, although a certain languor persisted in my body.

I shook my head softly. My name? Of course, Remi Marlowe. After forty-five years of being myself, it was impossible to forget.

«Well, that's clear», I thought. «But what am I doing here?» No matter how many turns I gave it, I couldn't understand. It didn't seem like a sleepwalking episode, and this residential area was completely deserted. It made no sense that I had come here.

Perhaps I had gone out walking without direction and arrived by pure inertia? The word "inertia" resonated in my mind and pulled an ironic smile from me.

I remembered when years ago I had a house built with the genuine illusion that it would be our permanent home. I designed it thinking of the three of us, my wife, my little daughter, and myself. Although the space was perfect for a family, now only I remained. They were no longer here.

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My wife had succumbed to a disease with an unpronounceable long name. In simple terms, her blood vessels became obstructed by clots until causing death. It was a hereditary curse she had received from her father.

—She feared that if you knew, you wouldn't want to marry a sick woman, that's why she kept it secret —her best friend revealed to me during the funeral.

From that moment, a question hammered incessantly in my head: «Why? Why? WHY?».

If only... if only she had told me... however costly it was, we would have looked for a cure together. We would have invested the last penny we had uselessly accumulated —I tortured myself with these thoughts over and over.

It was evident that my wife had not married me for money. I met her before becoming a merchant, in that library I used to frequent. I was the one who watched her enraptured while she, the librarian, organized the new releases section.

—I thought she was... a beautiful person —I murmured to myself—. The corner of new books she cared for always had something fascinating. While I fell in love with those books, I also fell in love with her.

That "why?" bounced millions of times in my mind until finally fading away.

Her best friend proved to be an extraordinarily responsible person. When I had lost all spirit after my wife's death, she took the reins with energy to take care of my daughter and me. She prepared hot meals when I didn't even remember to feed myself, and she tenderly combed my little girl who cried, missing the braids her mother used to make her.

Perhaps there was something of unrequited love in her actions. When my daughter fell into bed with fever and began to vomit uncontrollably, it was this friend who took her to the hospital. It was she, not I, who first knew that my little one suffered from the same disease as her mother.

What followed happened gradually, although for me everything seemed to precipitate at a dizzying speed.

Determined not to repeat my wife's story, we toured countless prestigious hospitals. We prostrated ourselves before innumerable doctors, begging for help and access to experimental treatments.

Each medicine came with its price in side effects. My daughter cried with each dose. Observing her suffering day after day tore my soul apart, I knew too well that pain of helplessness.

No matter how many new treatments we tried, her condition continued to worsen. Finally, with all options exhausted, the doctors gave up and declared her case incurable.

«Could it be that my wife is calling her because she feels lonely down there?», I remembered thinking such an absurd thing repeatedly. I even pleaded in front of my wife's tomb: «Please, don't take her with you». But the dead could not answer.

Although I was mentally shattered, the first to collapse was my wife's best friend, who had faithfully accompanied us through all the hospitals. Exhausted from caring for my unstable daughter, she gradually distanced herself until we were truly alone, my little girl and I.

The excess of medications transformed my daughter. Her cheeks, once like rose petals floating in milk, acquired a sickly yellowish tone. Her sweet honey-colored hair began to fall mercilessly. Seeing her like that was unbearable. Her appearance broke my heart.

After endless fruitless discussions with doctors, we agreed to limit ourselves to painkillers. I didn't want her last days to be full of suffering.

Since then, there was some peace. Quiet days. I could see her smile again after so long.

We enjoyed those brief moments of happiness that remained to us.

The day she departed, the weather was splendid. It was an autumn where colors faded slowly. The sky was clear. From the hospital windows, the trees dyed red and yellow could be seen.

Nearby was a decorative fountain where withered leaves floated, gliding silently. They fell, floated, and wandered on the water, grouping as if attracted by a magnet. They were remains that, even dead, looked more beautiful than ever.