The door closed softly behind her.
And the world, for him, stopped.
Sylus remained motionless.
The fire was still dancing in the hearth, but he could no longer see anything.
Only the trace of her footsteps in the snow, beyond the windows, those tiny, fragile footsteps, already fading in the wind.
As if she had never been there.
He brought the handkerchief to his lips.
A scent: jasmine and rain.
So subtle that it became haunting.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he felt as if she were still there, behind him, breathing in the same silence.
But it was only an echo.
And echoes always lie.
He rose slowly, walked around the table, and placed his hand on the back of the chair she had touched that very morning.
His fingers traced the contours of the wood as one might trace a scar.
There was no blood, no visible wound.
But everything hurt.
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the floor.
He finally sat down, his shoulders heavy, his mind too full.
On the desk were open files: numbers, contracts, names.
Everything that had made up his life before her.
Everything that no longer made any sense now.
He remembered the day he had seen her for the first time:
the bar, the rain, the hazy light of late evening.
She looked lost, at least to him. With an air that was both fragile and fierce.
And he thought to himself: she doesn't know yet what she's awakening.
She should never have crossed his path.
And yet, he was the one who had done everything to make sure she did.
He got up and poured himself a glass of water.
But the water tasted bitter.
He put it down immediately.
His reflection in the window stared back at him: a man he no longer recognized.
His features drawn, dark circles under his eyes, his jaw clenched.
Standing, but shipwrecked.
Part of him wanted to erase everything: the bar, the cafes, the stolen evenings, the unspoken words.
The other part refused.
Because forgetting would be killing her a second time.
He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
And the memory came back, brutally:
"Don't ever do that again."
"Do what?"
"Love me as if it were allowed."
His own voice echoed like a muffled thunderclap.
Why had he said that?
Why, when he could have said stay?
He could have burned everything.
Everything.
But he had chosen to remain silent.
As always.
The hours passed.
The fire finally died out, leaving only warm ashes.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, indifferent.
Sylus slowly climbed the stairs, his fingers sliding along the banister.
The house was asleep.
Althea too, surely.
And in that perfect silence, he felt the weight of what he had just lost.
Not just a girl.
Not just a mistake.
But a part of himself that he would never get back.
He entered his bedroom.
The window was ajar; an icy breath brushed his skin.
On the nightstand was a photo of Althea as a child, laughing in the snow.
And right next to it was a book.
A novel he had never finished.
She had recommended it to him one day:
"Read it, you'll see: it hurts, but in a beautiful way."
He hadn't believed her.
Now he understood.
He sat down on the bed and opened the book at random.
A sentence awaited him:
"There are loves that you only experience once, because they devastate everything they touch."
He closed the book slowly.
His fingers were trembling.
So was his breath.
That night, he dreamed of her.
Not like before.
Not in desire, nor in guilt.
But in silence.
She was walking in the snow, her back to him.
Her silhouette faded as she moved forward.
And when he tried to call her name, no sound came out.
Only the wind laughed in his place.
He woke with a start.
Dawn was filtering through the curtains.
The fire was out, the room freezing.
But her scent still lingered in the air.
Light. Almost imperceptible.
Like a lingering farewell.
He went downstairs.
The house seemed bigger, emptier.
On the table, he found a note.
Not a letter: just a note, scribbled on a torn piece of paper.
"Thank you."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet, next to an old photo of Althea.
He smiled, a tired, joyless smile.
And in a barely audible whisper, he said:
"I'm the one who should be thanking you, Catarina."
Then he poured himself a coffee.
Black. No sugar. As always.
But this time, the taste was different.
As if the world had suddenly lost its center of gravity.
And everything, absolutely everything, had just been turned upside down.