The valley stretched out beneath a pale sky,
as if washed clean of everything.
Here, time seemed to move more slowly,
as if each day took care to settle on the previous one without ever completely replacing it.
Catarina now lived to the rhythm of fire and wind.
Valéria's house, an old stone and wood building,
smelled of dried herbs and warm bread.
In the morning, light streamed through the frost-covered windows,
casting shifting shapes on the walls.
Catarina rose early, often before her grandmother opened her eyes.
She made tea, fed the chickens, and then sat under the big oak tree behind the house, a blanket over her shoulders.
There, the silence had a different texture.
Not the kind that judges.
Not the kind that reminds.
But the kind that lets you breathe.
She had stopped counting the weeks.
She no longer wanted to measure what was changing.
Yet every day, her body spoke to her a little louder.
A twinge here, dizziness there,
an unfamiliar tenderness in the pit of her stomach.
And sometimes, in the middle of the night,
she would place a hand on her skin,
as if to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
Valéria didn't ask any questions.
She knew.
Mothers sense things before they are told.
Grandmothers, on the other hand,
remain silent to let time do its work.
Sometimes, during a meal, she would simply ask:
"Are you sleeping better these days?"
And Catarina would respond with a smile, nothing more.
The rest could be read in the gestures:
In the soup that was thickened a little more each evening.
In the wool left on the chair, without comment.
In the looks, full of words that no longer needed to be said.
One day, as the snow began to melt on the roofs,
Catarina accompanied Valéria to the village.
The road was long and winding, lined with pine trees.
They spoke little.
But the simple sound of their footsteps in the snow was enough to fill the gaps.
"You know, said Valéria, looking at the horizon,
silence doesn't always heal. It just forces you to listen differently."
Catarina nodded.
"And you, what do you hear, Grandmother?"
"That you're carrying something too heavy, she replied softly.
But also... something that saves you."
Catarina looked away.
A cold wind blew across the road, stirring up a few snowflakes.
She pulled her coat a little tighter around her.
Back home, she stood in front of the fireplace for a long time,
her hands wrapped around a cup of hot milk.
Outside, the snow was slowly melting,
revealing patches of black earth.
She saw it as a sign.
The world was beginning to breathe again.
And so was she, a little.
But when night fell, it all came back.
The fire, the music, his name on her lips.
She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would be strong enough to erase his face.
It never was.
One night, she dreamed of him.
Not the Sylus she had known, but another, younger, shadowless,
laughing at the piano under a summer sun.
She woke up with a lump in her throat.
A tear rolled down her cheek before she even opened her eyes.
She sat up, her hand resting on her stomach.
And in a whisper, she murmured:
"You won't know him.
Not like I knew him.
But you'll know that he existed.
That somewhere, in this world that still frightens me,
someone made me feel alive.
And that will have to be enough for you."
In the morning, Valeria found her asleep in the armchair,
her head resting on the back, a notebook open on her lap.
An unfinished sentence in the middle of the page:
"Silence doesn't kill. It teaches you to live differently."
Outside, the wind had died down.
And for the first time in a long time,
the sky seemed a little brighter.