That Saturday, the sky seemed to have forgotten the color of sunlight.A fine rain had been falling since morning, stretching time like a fragile thread.Catarina stayed in bed, a novel resting open on her chest, without really reading.
Around noon, her phone buzzed:
Althéa " You up, eternal sleeper?"
Catarina:"Halfway. It's raining."
Althéa: "Perfect. Call me. I need some shared melancholy."
Catarina couldn't help but smile and answered the call. Althéa appeared on screen, messy hair, worn-out gray hoodie, hot chocolate in hand.
"Hey, ghost of lazy mornings."
"Hey, melancholic clown."
This time, the silence between them was calm, almost peaceful.
"You know," Althéa began, eyes on the rain, "I dreamed of her last night."
"Of who?"
"My mother."
Her voice wasn't sad, just distant, like a memory that didn't quite belong to her.
"I don't even remember her. She left when I was a baby. Well… left is the word my father uses. Not died. Like she just took a train and forgot to come back."
"You never asked him?"
"I did. He always says the same thing: 'She loved you very much, but she was fragile.'"
She blew softly over her cup, the steam tracing circles in the air.
"Sometimes I'm scared I inherited that invisible fragility. You know, the kind you only notice too late."
Catarina stayed silent.She could see in Althéa's eyes that strange transparency, the one carried by people who bear unnamed grief.
"And your father?"
"He… does his best. He's a man who loves quietly. He doesn't talk much, doesn't laugh often, but he's there. Except when he's not."
"Not there?"
"In his head. He drifts away sometimes, stares out the window like he's waiting for someone. Maybe her."
She held up a slightly crumpled photograph.
"Look. That's her."
Catarina gazed at the picture, a woman with piercing green eyes, a radiant, almost unreal smile.
"She's beautiful."
"People say I look like her… but I think I just look like I'm trying to."
Then came the question about Catarina's mother.She answered softly, honestly:
"My mother… she's the kind of woman you only ever see from afar. I told you before."
"What do you mean?"
"She lives in noise, in beauty, in control. She's a great creator, designs clothes, music, images, everything at once. The whole world admires her, but… few really know her. Maybe not even me."
"Does she love you?"
"Yes… in her own way. Sometimes I think she forgets I exist. She lives in her art, not in the present."
"And your father?"
"He's different. Quiet. Travels a lot. But when he's here, he looks at me like I'm something precious."
"That's beautiful."
"Yeah. He loves me with a calm kind of love. But he doesn't know how to say it, so he gives me books, flowers, silences."
Catarina let out a soft laugh.
"In my family, love speaks in whispers."
"And in mine," Althéa said thoughtfully, "it's always a little out of sync."
They didn't speak for a while. Words hung between them, heavy with everything unspoken.Outside, the rain kept falling.Their two worlds seemed to touch for a moment, two hearts beating in different houses, tied by the same solitude.
"You know," Althéa murmured, "sometimes I wonder what her voice sounded like. My mother's."
"You've never heard it?"
"No. My father destroyed all the recordings. Said it was 'to stop hurting.' But I think he was just afraid he'd never forget her."
Her fingers tightened around the mug, as if holding on to it could stop her from breaking.
"Sometimes I wonder if he blames her. Or himself."
Catarina wanted to hold her, but the distance between them wasn't just physical, it was made of modesty and old wounds.So she only whispered:
"Maybe he's just afraid to love again."
Althéa looked up, a tear glinting beside her smile.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's afraid that I'll become her."
Silence fell again.A silence heavy, but not empty.The kind of silence where unspoken promises are born, the ones you know you'll keep.
"Catarina?"
"Yeah?"
"If one day I lose everything, the house, the certainty, the smiles… will you remind me who I am?"
"I promise. And if I fade too deep into my shadows, you'll bring me back?"
"Always."
They shared one last, quiet look before Althéa laughed softly, wiping her eyes.
"Okay, enough. If we keep this up, we're gonna end up writing a tragic novel."
"Too late," Catarina smiled. "It's already written."
The call ended.
Catarina stayed there for a while, staring at the black screen.Her reflection mingled with the rain behind the window.She thought of Althéa's mother. Of her own father.Of those absences we learn to love.
And for some reason she couldn't name, she felt a strange melancholy,as if somewhere, an old story was beginning to stir again.