Glue Band-aids for wounds: complete guide, tips and recommended band-aids 2025

 "Sticking Plasters" (or: The Unsolicited Wisdom of a Bandage Enthusiast)

One, who has been patching up scratches, broken hearts and hurt egos for years, always carries band-aids in her bag. Today, without anyone asking me, I'm going to share some accumulated wisdom from my band-aid and advice workshop.
I’m not a nurse, but I’ve seen it all. My advice comes from experience, not a degree. (I’ve made every possible mistake—and I’m probably forgetting some.)

The first time I tried to tend to someone else’s wound—a scrape on my cousin’s knee after he fell off the swing—I used duct tape because it was the only thing in the drawer. My aunt yelled from the kitchen: "María, that’s for painting furniture, not children!" I learned that you don’t need to know much, but you do need to tell the difference between white glue and iodine.

Plasters are just the beginning; behind them lie stories, bruises, and the occasional scare. Once, a neighbor knocked on my door with a cut on her finger and confessed she got it while chopping almonds for her mother-in-law’s cake—"the same woman who said I couldn’t cook." The plaster was quick; what took longer was listening to how that cut was really a silent scream against her mother-in-law’s judgments.

I don’t judge how you got hurt. It doesn’t matter if it was clumsiness, bravery, or pure carelessness.

A friend showed up with a swollen ankle after jumping a fence to impress a girl. "Did it work?" I asked while icing it. "No, but now I have an excuse to limp dramatically when I visit her." Moral of the story: even stumbles have their uses.

Supermarket ice cream cakes have an underrated therapeutic power.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and my friend Lola arrived at my place with puffy eyes and a supermarket ice cream cake. "My boyfriend and I broke up," she said, collapsing onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes. Me, ever the believer that words can mend almost anything, leapt to her rescue:

"Well, at least he didn’t leave you at the altar," I blurted, sure it was the kind of perspective-shifting remark she needed.

Lola stared at me as if I’d just spat in her face. "My dad left my mom on their wedding day," she said quietly. "He got into a taxi and said, ‘This isn’t going to work.’"

The silence that followed was so thick you could’ve cut it with the knife I brought from the kitchen to eat the cake. It was chocolate ice cream cake, and we ate it together to forget my comment. Since then, when someone shows up heartbroken, I ask first: "Do you want to talk, or should we skip straight to the ice cream?" And I never mention altars.

The best cures take time. There are no shortcuts to a properly healed wound.
As a kid, I’d pick at my scabs out of impatience. My mother warned me: "If you don’t let it heal, it’ll leave a mark." Now my heart looks like a map of lost battles. I apply the same rule to advice: rushing is the enemy of solutions.

Not everything can be fixed with a "heal, little frog’s bottom" chant. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it stings.
When my cousin had her tonsils out, I told her ice cream would fix everything. On day two, she glared at me with teary, hoarse defiance: "You lied. It still hurts." I hugged her (and gave her more ice cream). I learned not to sell magic fixes, but to offer companionship through the process.

Sometimes, the sharpest pain isn’t the wound.
A coworker came to my desk asking for a plaster for her finger. As I applied it, she burst into tears because her cat had died that morning. I didn’t know what to say, so I handed her a tissue and told her how mine once ran off with a neighborhood tabby and only came back for food. She laughed through her tears. Sometimes, the plaster is just an excuse.

Epilogue:
We’ve all been plaster-stickers at some point (and we’ve all given well-meaning bad advice). What matters isn’t always being right, but learning when to reach for a plaster, ice cream, or just silence—and the other person’s hand.

(And yes, sometimes you have to forgive yourself for using duct tape.)

—mvf

Pega Tiritas para heridas: guia completa, consejos y curitas recomendadas 2025

"Tiritas para heridas" (o: La sabiduría no solicitada de una entusiasta de los vendajes). 

 

 Una, que lleva años poniendo parches a rasguños, corazones rotos y egos lastimados, siempre lleva tiritas en el bolso. Hoy sin que nadie me lo pida, voy a compartir alguna sabiduría acumulada de mi taller de tiritas y consejos.

No soy enfermera, pero he visto de todo. Mis consejos vienen de la experiencia, no de un título.
 (cometí todos los errores posibles y seguro que me olvido alguno)

 La primera vez que intenté curar una herida ajena —un rasguño de mi primo tras caerse del columpio—  usé cinta de carrocero porque era lo único que había en el cajón. Mi tía me gritó desde la cocina: —¡Marise eso es para pintar muebles, no para niños!—. Aprendí que no hace falta saber mucho, pero sí distinguir entre la cola blanca y el yodo.

 Las tiritas son solo el principio; detrás hay historias, moretones y algún que otro susto. Una vecina llamó una vez a mi puerta con un corte en el dedo y confeso que se lo hizo partiendo almendras para la tarta de su suegra, —la misma que me dijo que su nuera no valía para cocinar—. La tirita fue rápida; lo que tardó fue escuchar cómo aquel corte era en realidad un grito silencioso contra los juicios familiares de su suegra.

No juzgo cómo te lastimaste. Da igual si fue por torpeza, valentía o puro descuido. 

Un amigo apareció con el tobillo hinchado después de saltar una valla para impresionar a una chica. —¿Y funcionó?—, le pregunté mientras le ponía hielo. —No, pero ahora tengo excusa para cojear dramáticamente cuando a visitarla—. Moraleja: hasta los tropiezos tienen su utilidad.

Las tartas heladas del súper tienen un poder terapéutico infravalorado.

Era martes por la tarde, y mi amiga Lola llegó a mi casa con los ojos hinchados y una tarta helada del supermercado . —Mi novio y yo terminamos», dijo, dejándose caer en el sofá como un saco de arena. Yo, que siempre he creído que las palabras pueden remendar casi cualquier cosa, me lancé al rescate de ella:

—Bueno, al menos no te dejó en el altar», solté, segura de que era el tipo de comentario que pone las cosas en perspectiva.

Lola se quedó mirándome como si acabara de escupir en su cara  —Mi padre dejó a mi madre el día de la boda», dijo en voz baja. —Se subió a un taxi y dijo: —esto no va a funcionar...—.

El silencio que siguió fue tan espeso que casi se podía cortar con el cuchillo que traje de la cocina para comer la tarta. Era tarta helada de chocolate y nos la comimos las dos para olvidar mi comentario. Desde entonces, cuando alguien llega con el corazón roto, pregunto primero:—¿Quieres que hablemos o que comamos helado directamente—?. Y nunca, nunca menciono altares.

 Las mejores curas llevan tiempo. No hay atajos para una herida bien cerrada.
 De pequeña, me arrancaba las costras de las rodillas por impaciente. Mi madre me advertía: —Si no dejas que sane, te quedará señal—. Hoy mi corazón parece un mapa de guerras perdidas. Ahora aplico lo mismo a los consejos: las prisas son enemigas de las soluciones.

 No todo se cura con un —sana, sanita, culito de rana—. A veces duele, a veces pica.
 Cuando a mi prima le quitaron las amígdalas, le dije que el helado lo arreglaría todo. Al segundo día, me miró con lágrimas y voz ronca: —Tú mentiste. Esto sigue doliendo—. Le di un abrazo (y otro helado). Aprendí que no hay que vender soluciones mágicas, sino compañía en el proceso.

 A veces, lo que más duele no es la herida.
Una compañera de trabajo vino a mi despacho pidiendo una tirita para el dedo. Mientras se la ponía, rompió a llorar porque su gato había muerto esa mañana. No supe qué decirle, pero le di un pañuelo y le conté cómo el mío se fugó con una gata del barrio y solo volvió para comer. Se rio entre lágrimas. A veces, la tirita es solo un pretexto.

Epílogo:

Todos hemos sido pega-tiritas alguna vez (y todos hemos dado un consejo malo con buena intención). Lo importante no es acertar siempre, sino aprender a distinguir cuándo hace falta una tirita, un helado o simplemente callar y apretar la mano del otro.

(Y sí, a veces también hay que perdonarse por haber usado cinta de carrocero).

 

mvf 

el vecino del 6C

 

En el sexto piso del alto edificio de apartamentos, vive una persona de quien nadie parece acordarse. Su nombre es desconocido, su rostro incierto. Los vecinos, si se les pregunta, fruncen el ceño: "¿Quién? ¿En el 6C? No. Creo que ahí no hay nadie...".

Su rutina es invisible: sale y regresa al amanecer, cuando los demás duermen y los pasillos están vacíos. Las facturas llegan a su buzón, pero nunca se ven en sus manos. A veces, en la noche, alguien podría jurar que oyó algún ruido en el 6C, pero al aguzar el oído no oye nada.

El edificio tiene su vida normal: y se oyen entre sus paredes risas, discusiones, pasos en las escaleras. Pero el 6C es como un espacio en blanco en bullicio colectivo.

Lo más inquietante no es la ausencia del vecino del 6C, sino que en algún momento, todos han pasado frente a su puerta y han sentido que en su apartamento no había nadie.

 El de 6C murió un sábado por la mañana, sin que nadie se enterase: en silencio y sin saber nadie que existía, como había vivido. Su muerte se notó algunos días después, cuando el olor se filtró por las rendijas de la puerta, un aroma denso y dulzón que avanzó por el pasillo de la sexta planta del edificio, hasta que los vecinos ya no pudieron ignorarlo: algo putrefacto se había metido en sus vidas. La dueña del piso de al lado, doña Marta, fue la primera en golpear la puerta, al principio con timidez, luego con urgencia. Ante el silencio, llamó al conserje.

 Juntos forzaron la entrada. El aire viciado los golpeó al instante, una mezcla de muerte y abandono que les hizo llevarse las manos a la nariz. Doña Marta se tapó la boca con el pañuelo que siempre llevaba en el bolsillo, mientras el conserje, más curtido, avanzó con pasos cautelosos, como si temiera ser amonestado por invadir algo.  
Allí, en el sofá desgastado del salón, junto a la ventana entreabierta, yacía el vecino del 6C. Su cuerpo ya rígido tenía su piel amoratada, y sus ojos entreabiertos miraban hacía el techo con expresión ausente. Sobre la mesa de centro, una taza de café seco mostraba el rastro oscuro de lo que había sido su último sorbo. Junto a ella, un libro abierto -las páginas dobladas en una esquina-  marcaba las paginas pasadas.
Minutos después, el ulular lejano de una sirena rompió el silencio tenso del barrio. Las luces azules y rojas se reflejaron en los ventanales del vestíbulo mientras una patrulla se detenía frente al portón. Dos agentes bajaron con paso firme, y se adentraron en el edificio.
El conserje los recibió en el rellano del sexto piso, pálido, con las manos aún temblorosas. Señaló la puerta entreabierta del 6C sin decir palabra. Uno de los agentes, el más joven, se adelantó y empujó con cuidado la hoja, que crujió como si protestara. El otro, más veterano, ya hablaba por radio solicitando refuerzos y una unidad forense. La escena los dejó en silencio un momento. La víctima, parecía haber sido sorprendida por la muerte sin tener nada que hacer. La mirada fija, vidriosa, apuntaba al techo, como si hubiera tratado de escapar por allí.
Doña Marta, desde el umbral, murmuró sin ser escuchada:
—Nunca lo vi entrar. Nunca lo vi salir.
Poco a poco fueron llegando otros vecinos, atraídos por la presencia policial, los murmullos que bajaban por las escaleras, y ese instinto casi inevitable de asomarse al drama ajeno. Algunos hablaban en voz baja, otros apenas se atrevían a acercarse. La señora Julia, del 5B, juraba que había creido oir algún ruido proveniente del 6C, pero de eso hacía más de un año que fue. Don Ernesto, del 7A, decía que siempre pensó que ese departamento estaba vacío desde la pandemia. Incluso el conserje, que debía tener algún registro de entrada o movimiento, confesó no haber entregado nunca correspondencia ni visto a nadie entrar con llaves.
Ella, al igual que los vecinos que se acercaron a ver qué sucedía y a quienes la policía tomo declaración, coincidieron en manifestar que siempre creyeron que el departamento 6C estaba desocupado. Algunos afirmaban que nunca vieron la puerta abrirse, otros decían no haber escuchado jamás un sonido que proviniera del interior. Para todos ellos, en el 6C no había nadie.

 

 El problema comenzó cuando, tras su fallecimiento, ninguno de sus familiares quiso hacerse cargo del entierro.

—"Él nunca se preocupó por nosotros, ¿por qué habríamos de preocuparnos ahora?. ¡Que lo entierren los del ayuntamiento !", dijo su hija mayor, Clara, desde la otra punta del país.

 —"Yo no tengo dinero para eso", alegó su hermano menor, Mario, aunque llevaba dos semanas presumiendo de comprarse un auto nuevo.

 —"Él nunca nos ayudó en vida, ¿por qué deberíamos gastar en su funeral?" —dijo su hija pequeña colgando el teléfono.

 —"Que lo entierren como indigente" —dijo su ex, indignada, por quedarse sin pensión.

y así es como el cuerpo de vecino del 6C esperaba un destino digno.

Una noche, cuando su familia se juntó en el 6C para ver qué hacer con sus pocas pertenencias, la luz parpadeó. El viento cerró las ventanas de golpe y de pronto apareció él: pálido, oliendo a tierra húmeda.

Su hija gritó. Su hermano se desmayó... Su ex , la única que intentó huir, se encontró  las puertas de la casa cerradas, impidiéndole escapar.

—"Si ninguno de ustedes quiere pagar mi entierro, yo lo haré" —dijo, con una voz que sonaba a huesos, flotando en el aire.

El fantasma sacó una bolsa con monedas y billetes viejos del interior de su almohada (su "fondo de emergencia"). Con dedos rígidos, y después de mostrarlos frente a sus familiares, musitó, satisfecho: —"Justo lo suficiente para un ataúd de segunda… y un ramo de flores artificiales" — y desapareció.

 Un jueves de octubre un coche de la funeraria fue a la morgue a recoger el cuerpo: un ataúd sencillo, una misa corta en la capilla del cementerio y un nicho en el camposanto municipal. Nadie de su familia fue al entierro, salvo una amante lejana que apareció sin saber de donde y nadie se esperaba, que llegó tarde y despistada y se fue antes de que terminara el sacerdote.

Cuando el féretro entró en el nicho, el silencio fue más elocuente que cualquier discurso. 

 Mientras el enterrador, con su paleta, sellaba con cemento los bordes de la lápida en el nicho, sus ojos se posaron involuntariamente en el nombre grabado en la fría piedra: "Avelino Rojas, 1968-2024". Las letras, recién cinceladas, aún conservaban el polvo blanquecino del mármol. y no pudo evitar reflexionar sobre la muerte solitaria del difunto.

—"No es justo", murmuró, limpiándose el sudor de la frente con el dorso de la mano. "Nadie debería partir así... tan solo."

  Fue entonces cuando escuchó una voz suave a sus espaldas
—"Gracias." 

Se dio la vuelta y vio que tras él no había nadie.

 

mvf.

 

 

 

 

the neighbor of 6C

 On the seven floor of the tall apartment building lives a person no one seems to remember. Their name is unknown, their face uncertain. The neighbors, if asked, furrow their brows: "Who? In 6C? No, I think no one lives there..."

Their routine is invisible: they leave and return at dawn, when others are asleep and the hallways are empty. Bills arrive in their mailbox but are never seen in their hands. Sometimes, at night, someone might swear they heard a noise from 6C, but when they listen closely, there’s nothing.
The building carries on with its normal life: laughter, arguments, footsteps on the stairs echo through its walls. But 6C is like a blank space in the collective bustle.

The most unsettling thing isn’t the absence of the neighbor in 6C, but the fact that at some point, everyone has passed by their door and felt that no one was inside.

The resident of 6C died on a Saturday morning without anyone noticing—silently, just as they had lived, unknown. Their death was only noticed days later when a thick, sickly-sweet smell seeped through the cracks of the door, creeping down the sixth-floor hallway until the neighbors could no longer ignore it: something rotten had invaded their lives. The woman from the apartment next door, Doña Marta, was the first to knock—hesitantly at first, then urgently. When there was no answer, she called the superintendent.

Together, they forced the door open. Stale air hit them instantly, a mix of death and neglect that made them cover their noses. Doña Marta pressed her handkerchief—always kept in her pocket—to her mouth, while the superintendent, more hardened, stepped forward cautiously, as if afraid of being scolded for intruding.
There, on the worn-out living room sofa by the half-open window, lay the neighbor from 6C. Their stiff, purple-tinged body stared blankly at the ceiling through half-open eyes. On the coffee table, a dried-up coffee cup bore the dark stain of their last sip. Beside it, an open book—its corner folded—marked the pages they had read.

Minutes later, the distant wail of a siren broke the tense silence of the neighborhood. Blue and red lights reflected off the lobby windows as a patrol car stopped at the entrance. Two officers stepped out firmly and entered the building.
The superintendent met them on the sixth-floor landing, pale, his hands still trembling. He pointed wordlessly at the half-open door of 6C. The younger officer stepped forward and carefully pushed the creaking door, as if it protested. The older one radioed for backup and a forensics unit. The scene left them silent for a moment. The victim seemed to have been caught by death with no chance to resist. Their glassy, fixed gaze pointed at the ceiling, as if they had tried to escape upward.

From the threshold, Doña Marta muttered, unheard:
—"I never saw him come in. I never saw him leave."

Gradually, other neighbors arrived, drawn by the police presence, the murmurs drifting down the stairs, and that almost unavoidable instinct to peek into others' tragedies. Some spoke in hushed tones; others barely dared to approach. Señora Julia from 5B swore she had heard noises from 6C—but that was over a year ago. Don Ernesto from 7A said he always thought that apartment had been empty since the pandemic. Even the superintendent, who should have had some record of entries or deliveries, admitted he had never handed over mail or seen anyone enter with keys.

She, like the other neighbors who came to see what was happening and gave statements to the police, all agreed: they had always believed apartment 6C was vacant. Some claimed they had never seen the door open; others said they had never heard a sound from inside. To all of them, 6C had been empty.

The problem began when, after his death, none of his relatives wanted to take responsibility for the burial.

—"He never cared about us, so why should we care now? Let the city bury him!" said his eldest daughter, Clara, from across the country.

—"I don’t have money for that," argued his younger brother, Mario, despite having bragged about buying a new car just two weeks earlier.

—"He never helped us in life, why should we spend on his funeral?" said his youngest daughter before hanging up.

—"Bury him like a beggar," snapped his ex-wife, furious at losing her alimony.

And so, the body of the neighbor from 6C awaited a dignified fate.

One night, when his family gathered in 6C to sort through his few belongings, the lights flickered. The wind slammed the windows shut, and suddenly, he appeared—pale, smelling of damp earth.

His daughter screamed. His brother fainted. His ex-wife, the only one who tried to flee, found all the doors locked, trapping her inside.

—"If none of you will pay for my burial, I’ll do it myself," he said in a voice like rattling bones, floating in the air.

The ghost pulled out a bag of old coins and bills from inside his pillow (his "emergency fund"). With stiff fingers, after showing them to his family, he muttered, satisfied: —"Just enough for a second-class coffin… and a bouquet of fake flowers." Then he vanished.

On a Thursday in October, a hearse picked up the body from the morgue: a simple coffin, a short mass in the cemetery chapel, and a niche in the municipal graveyard. None of his family attended—except for a distant lover no one expected, who arrived late and disoriented, leaving before the priest finished.

When the coffin was placed in the niche, the silence spoke louder than any eulogy.

As the gravedigger sealed the edges of the tombstone with cement, his eyes fell on the name carved into the cold stone: "Avelino Rojas, 1968–2024." The freshly chiseled letters still bore the white dust of the marble. He couldn’t help but reflect on the lonely death of the deceased.

—"It’s not fair," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "No one should leave this world… so alone."

Then, he heard a soft voice behind him:
—"Thank you."

He turned—but there was no one there.

 

mvf

The old fisherman's dream. Horror story

The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, after painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. In his humble cabin, set apart from the last houses of the village, the old fisherman woke at midnight, startled and drenched in cold sweat. His heart pounded, and his hands trembled as he recalled the dream he had just had.
—It can't be...— he muttered to himself, climbing out of bed and lighting a candle. —That curse... it can't be real. Something like this can't happen.
The next day, his heart heavy with unease, the old fisherman made his way to the port's tavern. Amid the murmur of conversations and the scent of salt and alcohol, he decided to tell those present about his dream. With a shaky voice and eyes full of worry, he spoke of something terrible.
—Listen to me, please!— he shouted over the tavern's clamor. —A great disaster will befall us if we don’t leave this place!
Some of the patrons fell silent to listen as he repeated the dream from the night before:
—In ancient times, using dark arts and forbidden sorcery, men tried to dominate the fury of the sea, to bend it to their will and force it to obey their desires. But their spells and incantations only succeeded in unleashing an unspeakable entity trapped in the ocean’s depths.
The crowd, skeptical and amused, responded with murmurs and mocking glances, dismissing his warning as the fantasy of an old fisherman whose mind had been dulled by age.
"Old man, maybe you're just tired... Get some rest. The ocean is calm—there’s nothing to fear.
"You don’t understand!" the fisherman shouted in desperation. —The ocean isn’t calm—it’s waiting! If you don’t believe me, come to the beach tonight! I’ll show you the truth of what’s coming!
Among the sailors who heard him, there were bursts of laughter and derisive comments. Some chuckled, others muttered, but no one offered to join him.
Heart heavy with sorrow, the fisherman fell silent and looked at them with sadness, feeling the weight of loneliness and misunderstanding. Without another word, he downed his drink in one gulp, slammed the empty mug onto the counter with a sharp thud, and turned to leave the tavern, heading back to his shack.
That evening, as dusk fell, the old man took an oil lamp and walked down to the beach. The full moon bathed the sand in pale light, and the sound of the waves seemed louder than ever. He trudged slowly toward a secluded spot, far from the village’s noise, where his fading memory recalled seeing something strange years ago. It was a lonely place, surrounded by tall, jagged rocks that seemed to stand guard over the ocean. With effort, he climbed onto the rocks, seeking a vantage point from which he could scan the horizon for any sign of change.
The salty wind whipped his face as he searched the waters, waiting for some confirmation of his nightmare. Would those strange phenomena he had envisioned appear on the horizon. His heart pounded as he prepared to learn whether his fears were justified—or if it had all been nothing more than a bad dream. But exhaustion overtook him, and he fell asleep peacefully, leaning against a sun-warmed rock.

The waves crashed against the breakwater with unnatural fury, their foam and spray exploding like gunshots. Each assault of the tide roared like a deep warning, as if the ocean itself was trying to tell the people that something terrible approached. The wind howled through the ship masts, carrying a bone-chilling cold, and the air reeked of salt and decay.
Suddenly, the waters began to stir ominously, as if something massive moved beneath the surface. The chaotic waves twisted into a swirling vortex of foam and shadow. Then, with impossible slowness, the tide began to recede, dragging seaweed and fish with it—farther than anyone had ever seen. The ocean pulled back, revealing the seabed: a surreal, alien landscape.
Under the moon’s silver glow, the ocean floor lay exposed—an ancient world of fissures and jagged rocks leading into the earth’s heart. Sea creatures writhed helplessly, stranded in the open air. The wet sand shimmered faintly, reflecting the moonlight in a spectacle both beautiful and terrifying.
By morning, the villagers emerged from their homes, drawn by curiosity and awe. They gathered at the harbor, staring at the vast stretch of greenish seaweed that now reached to the horizon. An oppressive silence hung in the air, broken only by the drip of water from the rocks and the crunch of shells underfoot. Children ran laughing among the stranded starfish and fleeing crabs, as if the ocean had chosen to reveal its oldest face.
—I’ve never seen anything like this—,  a woman whispered, clutching her daughter’s hand. "Why is the ocean showing us its secrets?
Among the crowd, a child pointed toward the horizon, where the remains of an ancient wooden ship—long lost to the depths—now stood exposed. Driven by curiosity, a few villagers cautiously approached. The vessel’s salt-eaten beams, draped in seaweed and sediment, still bore traces of strange, forgotten carvings, hinting at a time when it had sailed with pride and mystery.
Three fishermen, well-known in the village, dared to enter the wreck. Helping each other through gaps in the hull, they stepped into the ship’s flooded interior. A damp, frigid darkness enveloped them, heavy with time. The walls were crusted with salt, their shadows stretching unnaturally in the dim light. The air was thick with brine, pressing down like a living thing.
As they moved deeper, their footsteps echoed through the silence. The ship groaned under their weight, its waterlogged planks slippery beneath their feet. One of them suddenly stopped, raising a hand in warning. Ahead, half-buried in sediment, lay scattered bones—brittle and bleached white.
Then, something moved in the shadows.
A long, dark shape thrashed in the water, sending them stumbling back in terror. The stench of rot and saltwater hit them like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, they were frozen—until one man grabbed a rusted sword from among the bones and struck. The creature—a massive, ugly conger eel—twisted violently before going still.
Relief was short-lived. The ship’s secret still loomed over them.
Pressing forward, they reached a heavy wooden door at the stern. Its rusted hinges shrieked as they forced it open, revealing the captain’s quarters. The room was thick with the smell of mildew and decay. Tattered curtains swayed like ghosts, barely letting in light. At the center stood an ancient desk, its surface littered with disintegrating parchments.
And beside them—a locked chest.
The men exchanged glances. This was it.
The lid refused to budge, sealed by decades of salt and rot. Two of them strained against it uselessly, until the third remembered the rusted sword. He wedged its chipped blade into the seam, levering with all his strength. Wood splintered. The chest creaked open—and from within poured a thick, living darkness.

On the shore, the villagers watched in horror as the seaweed began to writhe unnaturally, as if alive. The air grew heavy, reeking of salt and something far older. Before they could react, the ground trembled. The seaweed twisted violently, as if trying to flee the water. Then came the sound—a deep, resonant roar, vibrating in their bones.
Rising from the horizon, just as the old fisherman had feared, was a monstrous wall of black water. A scar upon the ocean, growing, surging toward them with impossible speed.
There was no time to run.
The wave swallowed everything—houses, boats, lives—in seconds. It was as if the ocean had reclaimed in an instant all it had given the village over the years.
When night fell, the moon rose calmly. The breeze turned warm again, the sea serene as if nothing had happened. But as the waters receded, only ruins remained—scattered debris, seaweed-choked streets, and the silent, creeping things of the deep, now the sole inhabitants of a place soon forgotten by time. 

 

mvf

El sueño del viejo pescador. Cuento de terror

El sol se había ocultado hacía rato en el horizonte, después de pintar el cielo con tonos anaranjados y morados. En su humilde cabaña, apartada de las últimas casas del pueblo, el viejo pescador despertó a medianoche sobresaltado, sudando frío. Su corazón latía con fuerza y sus manos temblaban al recordar el sueño que acababa de tener.

—No puede ser... —murmuró para sí mismo mientras salía de la cama y encendía una vela—. Esa maldición... no puede ser real que algo así pueda ocurrir.

Al día siguiente, el viejo pescador, con el corazón cargado de inquietud, se dirigió a la cantina del puerto. Allí, entre el murmullo de conversaciones y el aroma a sal y alcohol, decidió contar a los presentes su sueño. Con voz temblorosa y mirada llena de preocupación, les contó que había soñado algo terrible.

—¡Escúchenme, por favor! —gritó para hacerse oír sobre el bullicio de la cantina— ¡Una gran desgracia caerá sobre nosotros si no nos alejamos de aquí!

Y repitió, ante algunos de los presentes que hicieron silencio para escuchar, el sueño de la noche anterior:

—En tiempos lejanos, usando  artes oscuras y hechicería prohibida, unos hombres intentaron dominar la furia del mar para someterla a su voluntad y obligarlo a cumplir sus deseos, pero sus conjuros y sortilegios solo sirvieron para liberar a un ser innombrable que está atrapado en las entrañas del océano.

Los presentes, incrédulos y divertidos, entre murmullos y miradas burlonas, se rieron de él, interpretando su advertencia como mera fantasía de un viejo pescador a quien la edad había vencido su razón.

—Viejo, quizás estés cansado... Descansa un poco. El océano está en calma; no hay nada que temer.
—¡No me entienden! —gritó el viejo, desesperado—. ¡El océano no está tranquilo! ¡Solo está esperando! ¡Si no me creen, acompáñenme a la playa esta noche! ¡Les mostraré la verdad de lo que va a ocurrir!

Entre los marineros que le escucharon, hubo risotadas y algún que otro comentario despectivos. Algunos rieron, otros murmuraron, pero nadie se ofreció a acompañarlo.

El pescador, con el alma apesadumbrada, guardó silencio y los miró con tristeza, sintiendo el peso de la soledad y la incomprensión. Sin mediar palabra, apuró su trago de un tirón, dejó caer la jarra sobre la barra con un golpe seco y, mientras el eco del vaso vacío resonaba en el local, se dio media vuelta y salió de la cantina, rumbo a su choza. 

 Esa noche, al atardecer, el viejo tomó una lámpara de aceite y bajó a la playa. La luna llena iluminaba la arena, y el sonido de las olas parecía más fuerte que nunca. Caminó lentamente hacia un lugar apartado, lejos del bullicio del pueblo, donde su memoria deteriorada recordaba haber visto algo extraño años atrás. Era un sitio solitario, rodeado de rocas altas y escarpadas que parecían vigilar el océano desde tierra. Con esfuerzo, trepó sobre las rocas, buscando una posición elevada desde donde pudiera observar el horizonte y ver cualquier señal de cambio. El viento salado golpeaba su rostro mientras escudriñaba las aguas, esperando encontrar algún signo que confirmara lo que había soñado. ¿Aparecerían en el horizonte aquellos extraños fenómenos que su mente había vislumbrado? Con el corazón latiendo fuerte, se preparó para descubrir si sus temores tenían fundamento o si, tal vez, todo no era más que el eco de una pesadilla. Pero el sueño lo venció y quedó dormido apaciblemente, recostado contra una de las rocas que aún conservaban el calor del sol acumulado durante el día.

Las olas se rompían con furia desmedida, convirtiéndose en espuma y agua contra el rompeolas, aquel muro de piedra que resguardaba las embarcaciones de los pescadores en su refugio. Cada embestida del oleaje resonaba como un rugido profundo, una advertencia inquietante, como si el océano mismo intentara comunicar a la gente que algo terrible se avecinaba. El viento aullaba entre los mástiles de los barcos, llevando consigo un frío que helaba hasta los huesos, y un olor salobre impregnaba el aire.

De repente, las aguas comenzaron a agitarse de manera inquietante, como si algo enorme se estuviera moviendo en las profundidades. La superficie del océano, antes caótica, se convirtió en un remolino de espuma y sombras. Luego, con una lentitud que desafiaba la lógica, la marea comenzó a retirarse, arrastrando consigo algas y peces. Y el océano se retiró más allá de lo que nadie había visto antes, dejando al descubierto el lecho marino: un paisaje surrealista y desconocido.

Bajo la luz plateada de la luna, el fondo del océano se reveló como un mundo olvidado: de rocas y grietas profundas que parecían llevar al corazón de la Tierra, y criaturas marinas que se retorcían en un intento desesperado por volver al agua. La arena, húmeda y reluciente, reflejaba tenuemente la luz lunar, creando un espectáculo a la vez hermoso y aterrador.

Por la mañana, cuando los habitantes del pueblo salieron de sus casas, curiosos y asombrados, se reunieron en el puerto para contemplar el fenómeno ocurrido: una vasta extensión cubierta de algas verdosas se extendía ante sus ojos, hasta el horizonte. El silencio era abrumador, solo interrumpido por el leve goteo del agua que escapaba de las rocas y el crujido de las conchas bajo el peso de los pasos de quienes se atrevían a acercarse. Algunos niños en la playa comenzaron a correr entre enormes estrellas de mar y pequeños animales marinos, atrapados entre las algas resbaladizas, que huían asustados de sus pies.

Era como si el océano hubiera decidido mostrar su rostro más antiguo.

—Nunca había visto algo así —dijo una mujer mientras tomaba con cuidado la mano de su hija—. ¿Por qué el océano nos muestra sus secretos?

Entre la multitud congregada, un niño extendió su brazo y señaló hacia el horizonte, donde emergían los restos de un antiguo barco de madera, hundido tiempo atrás en un naufragio. Movidos por la curiosidad, algunas personas comenzaron a acercarse con cautela al lugar. Allí, carcomidas por el salitre y cubiertas de algas y una gruesa capa de sedimento, asomaban las vigas que en su día habían sostenido las velas de lo que debió ser una embarcación imponente y llena de grandeza. A pesar de los años sumergidos, el barco aún conservaba parte de su antigua majestuosidad, y sobre sus maderas, desgastadas pero resistentes, se distinguían talladas las letras de una escritura extraña y olvidada, evocando un tiempo en que había surcado los océanos con orgullo y misterio.

De entre los curiosos congregados, tres pescadores conocidos en el pueblo se atrevieron a adentrarse en el interior de las ruinas del barco. Ayudándose mutuamente para sortear las dificultades, lograron acceder al interior del barco a través de una de las aberturas en las maderas del casco. Una oscuridad húmeda y fría los envolvió de inmediato, como si el tiempo hubiera sellado aquel espacio con un peso intangible. Estaban seguros de que iban a descubrir el misterio que el barco guardaba.

Con cautela, se adentraron, avanzando hasta llegar al pasillo principal, que recorría la embarcación de proa a popa, conectando la zona delantera con la parte trasera del barco.

Las paredes estaban cubiertas de salitre y marcadas por el desgaste, y sus sombras entre la penumbra y la escasa luz que entraba al interior del barco proyectaban sombras difusas y alargadas que danzaban de manera inquietante sobre las maderas corroídas, como si el propio barco estuviera vivo y observara cada movimiento de sus visitantes. El aire denso que los rodeaba, cargado de sal y humedad, creaba una atmósfera opresiva que despertaba la sensación de hallarse en un lugar ancestral, donde yacía oculto un misterio insondable.

Mientras los tres marineros avanzaban por las entrañas del misterioso navío, cada paso era lento y medido, guiado más por el tacto y la intuición que por la vista. Caminaban a tientas, viendo apenas lo que tenían frente a ellos, pues la escasa luz del día que lograba filtrarse a través de las grietas del casco apenas iluminaba su camino. Y sus movimientos resonaban en el interior del silencio del barco mientras las maderas de la embarcación crujían, mojadas y resbaladizas bajo sus pies, como si el propio barco les advirtiera del peligro de su curiosidad.

Uno de los marineros se detuvo de repente y, levantando una mano con firmeza, obligó a los otros dos a detenerse en seco. Con un gesto serio y cauteloso, señaló hacia un compartimiento cercano. Un escalofrío les recorrió la espalda. Allí, dispersos y cubiertos por una fina capa de sedimentos, asomaban los restos de esqueletos blanquecinos y frágiles, y comprendieron que no estaban solos en aquel lugar.

De repente, algo se movió en las sombras, justo frente a ellos. Una figura larga y oscura se retorció en el agua, salpicando con fuerza y haciendo que todos retrocedieran asustados. El hedor a podredumbre y sal marina los golpeó con intensidad, aumentando su sensación de pánico.

El grupo, convencido de que tenían ante ellos a una criatura sobrenatural, se apretujó contra las paredes resbaladizas de madera. Sus ojos brillaban con un destello salvaje en la penumbra, y sus mandíbulas, repletas de dientes afilados, se abrían y cerraban con un sonido inquietante, mientras su cuerpo negro y viscoso se agitaba en el agua. El corazón les latía con fuerza, y el miedo los paralizó por un instante. Uno de los exploradores, agarrando con fuerza una espada oxidada de entre los restos de los esqueletos, reunió valor y se acercó con cuidado, intentando evitar la dentellada del animal.

La criatura marina se lanzó hacia él con un movimiento rápido, pero el hombre logró esquivarla y, con un golpe certero, clavó la espada en el cuerpo del animal. El pez se debatió violentamente, golpeando las paredes y salpicando agua por todos lados, mientras el grupo observaba con una mezcla de terror y fascinación su danza moribunda. Finalmente, la criatura quedó inmóvil, flotando en el agua turbia.

Solo entonces, al verlo de cerca, se dieron cuenta de que no era un monstruo, sino un enorme y feo congrio, atrapado en el pasillo inundado del barco. Respiraron aliviados, pero la tensión no desapareció del todo.

La sensación de que el barco aún escondía su secreto los mantenía en vilo. Tras un intercambio de miradas entre asombro y temor, los tres exploradores se pusieron en movimiento de nuevo. El agua, fría y turbia, chapoteaba alrededor de sus pies mientras avanzaban con cautela por el pasillo principal de la embarcación. En los rincones, las sombras parecían cobrar vida, como si algo más los estuviera observando desde la penumbra.

  "Una pesada puerta de madera les cerró el paso al llegar al camarote de popa. Los tres se abalanzaron contra ella, empujando con fuerza. Los goznes oxidados protestaron con un chirrido metálico, acompañado de un crujido sordo que resonó en la estrecha escalera. Tras un último esfuerzo, la puerta cedió, abriéndose con un quejido prolongado, como si se resistiera a revelar el secreto que se guardaba en el interior."

En el camarote el aire era aún más denso que en el resto del barco, impregnado de un olor a humedad y madera podrida.

El espacio contaba con tres grandes ventanas: dos laterales y una central, que en otro tiempo debieron ofrecer una vista imponente del mar. Ahora estaban cubiertas por cortinas empapadas y desgarradas, que apenas permitían el paso de unos hilos de luz diurna, sumiendo la estancia en una penumbra espesa. Las cortinas colgaban de manera fantasmal, meciéndose levemente, como si respiraran con el movimiento del agua estancada que ahora cubría el suelo hasta los tobillos.

En el centro del camarote, emergiendo de la penumbra, había un escritorio antiguo. Y sobre él, bañados por un resplandor blanquecino y fantasmal, yacían los restos deshechos de pergaminos antiguos, descoloridos y frágiles como el tiempo mismo. Junto a ellos, un cofre de madera, cerrado herméticamente, despertaba la curiosidad de los visitantes y la sospecha de que en su interior se escondía el misterio que el barco había guardado durante tanto tiempo.

Los exploradores se miraron entre sí, intuían que estaban a punto de descubrir algo importante. Uno de ellos se acercó al cofre y, con manos temblorosas, intentó abrirlo.

 La tapa no cedía, sellada por años de humedad que habían endurecido la madera hasta confundirla con la herrumbre. Dos de ellos forcejearon inútilmente con la cerradura, pero ni sus músculos tensos ni los arañazos en el metal lograron vencer su resistencia. Fue entonces cuando el tercero recordó: la espada con la que dieron muerte al congrio, abandonada cerca de la escalera, con su hoja aún manchada de salitre y sangre. Al regresar con ella la blandió con decisión y, usando el filo mellado como palanca, contra el borde del cofre. La madera crujió y el cofre finalmente se abrió, revelando el contenido oculto en su interior después de décadas, o quizás siglos, de permanecer sellado en el fondo del mar: era una oscuridad negra y espesa que salió de su interior y lo llenó todo.

 

En la costa, los habitantes del pueblo observaron con inquietud cómo las algas, inertes un momento antes, comenzaban a agitarse con un movimiento sinuoso, casi intencionado. El aire se espesó de repente, saturado de un olor salobre mezclado con algo más... algo putrefacto y antiguo. Antes de que pudieran reaccionar, la tierra tembló bajo sus pies, y las algas se retorcieron frenéticas, como si intentaran arrastrarse lejos de la orilla. Entonces, un sonido lejano comenzó a escucharse: un rugido profundo, tan vasto que resonó en los huesos,  anunciando que algo había despertado y venía de las profundidades. 

Desafiando el horizonte, tal como soñó y temió el viejo pescador, emergió de la nada una monstruosa muralla liquida. Una cicatriz oscura en el océano que se volvió gigante. Era una colosal ola de agua oscura y espumosa, imparable, que con una velocidad aterradora se abalanzó sobre el pueblo. Los gritos de pánico se fundieron con el estruendo ensordecedor que los hizo desaparecer. 

 Sin tiempo para escapar, la ola lo cubrió todo tragándose con su fuerza devastadora casas, botes y vidas en cuestión de segundos. Fue como si el océano reclamara en un instante todo lo que había ofrecido al pueblo durante años.

Cuando llegó la noche de ese día y la luna llena ascendió en el cielo, el aire se volvió cálido de nuevo. La brisa marina recuperó su ritmo sereno, como si jamás hubiera roto su armonía. Pero al retirarse las aguas, solo quedaron a la vista las ruinas de las casas del pueblo, los escombros esparcidos entre la arena de la playa, y los seres marinos, que corrían entre algas verdosas, se erigieron como únicos habitantes de aquel lugar que el tiempo no tardó en borrar de la memoria del anciano.

 

mvf.

The two brothers

Luis had always felt a void in his heart since his older brother, Javier, decided to leave for America in search of new opportunities. The news came like a bolt from the blue on a spring morning while they were returning along the path that led to the fountain, after having left the sheep grazing in a meadow. It was then that Javier, with a serious but determined expression, told him that after much reflection, he had made a decision that would change their lives forever.
“Luison, I’m going to America,” announced Javier with a mix of excitement and sadness in his voice.
Luis looked at him, surprised, and without thinking twice replied, “I want to go with you.” The idea of separating from his brother filled him with unease and seemed unbearable.
Javier smiled, but his gaze reflected concern.
“It’s not an easy journey, brother. Everyone who leaves says that America is a place full of opportunities, but many don’t come back. I don’t want you to take risks with me.”
“But I can’t stay here knowing you’re going alone,” insisted Luis, feeling how determination grew within him. “We’ve always been together; why should it be different now? I want to go with you,” he replied again.
Javier sighed and shook his head.
“No, Luison. You must stay here. Our parents are older and the house won’t take care of itself. They need your help.”
“But…” Luis began, feeling frustration grow at his brother's determination. “We’ve always been together. Why should it be different now?”
Javier looked at him firmly:
“Because it’s the right thing to do. There are responsibilities here. They need you more than I do at this moment.”
Luis felt a knot in his stomach upon hearing his brother's words. He knew he was right, but the thought of losing him was heartbreaking.
“I don’t want to stay here without you,” he finally said, his voice trembling—and moving closer to him, he hugged his brother tightly. Javier responded by embracing him back with strength.
“I promise I will do everything possible to make my fortune and return one day. But right now, your place is here. Take care of our parents and keep our house standing.”
With tears in his eyes, despite himself, Luis nodded; although he understood why he had to stay, the void left by Javier would be hard to bear.
“Alright,” murmured Luis in the end. “I will do what I have to do… and I promise everything will be well taken care of when you return.”
On the day of Javier's departure, the two brothers took the train to Vigo, heading together towards the city port. There, amidst the bustle and excitement of travelers, Javier prepared to embark for America. They said goodbye at the port with a long hug and a bittersweet smile that concealed both sadness and hope.
Javier took Luis's hands and promised him that he would return soon. With that promise, Javier headed towards the ship, the Alcántara, which proudly waved the English flag. Luis watched as his brother climbed up the gangway surrounded by other passengers sharing their uncertain fate.

The Alcántara was a majestic transatlantic liner of the English company Mala, which operated between Southampton and Buenos Aires. As Javier ascended the gangway of the ship, disappearing inside, with his black cap and the wooden suitcase containing the little he had for the journey, Luis felt a deep mixture of pride and melancholy.
Inside the Alcántara, Javier settled into third class for his journey to America alongside four hundred other passengers—all with similar dreams and hopes.
Luis remained at the dock until the ship set sail and watched as the transatlantic vessel slowly drifted away. The image of his brother disappearing among the crowd aboard the ship was etched in his memory. His brother was venturing into the unknown while he stayed at the port feeling that part of himself also departed for those distant lands.
Although he knew that the road would be long and full of uncertainties for Javier, Luis kept in his heart for many years the promise of his return and eagerly awaited the day their paths would cross again.
However, months turned into years, and letters exchanged between the two brothers since Alcántara's arrival in America became increasingly scarce until one day they stopped coming altogether.

THE LETTERS
At first, letters became rays of light in Luis's life. Every time the postman appeared at his door, his heart raced anxiously waiting for news from his brother. In his missives, Javier recounted how he had arrived in Buenos Aires describing the journey on Alcántara and how excited he felt stepping onto solid ground in that new city. The streets were filled with people and local food aromas enveloped him creating a vibrant atmosphere that fascinated him.
With determination, Javier began looking for work and after several days of effort managed to secure a job at a small grocery store. His letters were filled with hope and ambition reflecting his decision to build a new life in this distant land. With each new letter, Javier's enthusiasm and dreams became more evident; he shared experiences about America: bustling cities, diverse people he met along with seemingly endless opportunities.
Luis responded with stories about life in their village narrating anecdotes about home and neighbors. He told how their parents adapted to their eldest son's absence while trying to keep everything in order himself. Through these letters both brothers kept alive their connection despite being separated by distance.
Over time though letters began arriving less frequently. At first they received letters from Javier every three months but after a year his words became shorter and less detailed.
He spoke about work challenges but also mentioned how busy he was and how life in America was harder than he had imagined. Luis felt a pang of worry reading between lines; something wasn’t right.
Finally, the letters stopped coming. The wait became agonizing. Luis looked at the mailbox every day, hoping to find new news, but only found silence. He wondered if his brother was okay or if he had encountered difficulties he couldn’t share. In his desperation, he began writing to him, sending letters to his last address, asking for news and expressing his desire for him to be well and return. He told him about the small moments of daily life: family laughter, simple celebrations, and how their parents missed Javier more than ever. But those letters went unanswered.
Luis decided to ask friends and acquaintances if they had heard from Javier or knew anything about him in America. However, each attempt seemed to lead him to a dead end. The uncertainty grew like a dark shadow in his heart. Every time he heard the sound of a plane flying over his house or saw someone with a suitcase, his heart raced. Luis longed to receive news from his brother, but the reality was that he knew nothing about him. He had tried to seek information through friends and acquaintances, but all paths seemed to lead nowhere.
As time passed, the lack of communication became an unbearable weight for Luis. The letters had been his vital connection with his brother Javier; but now that connection had completely faded away. Despite the pain and anguish he felt from not knowing anything about his brother, he carefully kept each letter in a special box as a tangible reminder of the bond they shared.
As the years went by, Luis always held onto the hope that one day he would receive news from Javier; perhaps an unexpected letter would arrive in the mailbox or he might even meet face-to-face with him again. That hope was what kept alive the memory of his brother in his mind while he continued caring for their home and waiting for his return.
Although he learned to adapt to life without Javier, his absence always weighed on his heart. He dedicated himself to taking care of his parents and the family estate, and over time met Ana, the widow of Esparraguesas, a young woman from the village who shared his passion for home and family values. They quickly fell in love and married in a simple yet emotional ceremony surrounded by friends and family.
Ana became a new pillar in Luis's life, providing support and companionship as they faced everyday challenges together—all while keeping alive the hope that one day Javier would return. Soon children arrived. First came Sofía, a curious girl full of energy who filled the house with laughter. Then came Mateo, a quiet boy who always seemed to be observing the world with wonder.
Luis and Ana worked hard to raise their children with love and teachings about the importance of family and hard work. Years passed and life continued its course. Luis worked diligently to maintain their home and ensure that his children had opportunities he hadn’t had himself. Despite constant work, he always found time to play with them in the garden or read them stories before bed.
However, every time he looked at the starry sky at night, part of him still hoped for news from Javier. The letters never arrived; silence became deafening over time. But Luis never stopped dreaming of the day when his brother would return.
One day, when the children climbed up to rummage through the attic of their house, Mateo found a box with old photos which he brought to his father. As they looked through them, a childhood photo with his brother appeared. Luis felt a pang in his heart and decided to tell his children about Javier's dreams and how he had left for that land full of promises.
He told them about times when he and his brother sat by the window in their shared bedroom looking at stars and dreaming of adventures and success that awaited in distant lands that his brother spoke about. Sofía looked at her father with bright eyes: “Can we go look for him one day?” she asked, imagining her adventurous uncle in faraway lands.
Luis smiled melancholically at his daughter's innocent question. "Maybe one day," he replied softly. "But for now, we have to take care of our home and our family." Time and life continued on their path hand in hand. As an old man, on his deathbed, just before crossing the threshold, Luis remembered his parents and left hoping to see them again.
When he found himself in that place we do not know, Luis realized that there were people around him speaking in very diverse ways. Gradually, he learned that some were Arabs, others Hindus, and even a Chinese man approached him and greeted him. Although the man with slanted eyes and yellowish skin spoke to him in Mandarin, Luis understood what he was saying: "Are you as surprised as I am? This place is not like what our monks tell us," he said.
“Luison,” he heard someone calling his name from behind him, and when he turned around, he came face to face with his brother. “But what are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you know? I’ve been dead for over forty years.”
“I always thought you were alive!” exclaimed Luis. The two looked into each other’s eyes, and unable to contain their emotions, they rushed towards each other and embraced tightly, merging into one being. Laughter erupted from their lips as they recalled the mischief of their childhood—the adventures they had shared in their hometown.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” exclaimed Luis as they pulled back a little to look at each other better. Javier smiled; his eyes sparkled with the same mischievous glint he had always possessed.
“And I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” Javier replied, joking about how thin Luis had been in his youth. They began reminiscing about their wildest plans when they were children: escapades to the river, games in the fields, and the pranks they used to play on the neighbors. They promised to be together again and cause mischief like in the old days.
“Do you remember that time we tried to build a raft and ended up soaked?” laughed Javier.
“Yes! And Mom scolded us so much that we thought we’d never get out of the house again,” Luis replied between laughs.
Days after Luis's death, Ana, the widow of Esparraguesas, approached Garbancito's house with a container of quince paste that she made at home, and explained that since her husband’s death, the chickens had been running wildly through the garden, the sheep wandered off alone to graze by the fountain meadow, and the picture frame with her mother-in-law's photo—which her husband had despised—had fallen to the ground and broken; she begged Garbancito that if he dreamed of Luis, he should ask him if he had anything to do with these and other bizarre events that had started happening in the house since he left.