Anais had obtained the hospital address and the room number where Professor Krikett was admitted. She met Tomás in the back courtyard of the school to give him the information.
When he arrived at the meeting point, after waiting for her for almost an hour at the main entrance, he found her there, a satisfied smile on her face.
"I have what you asked for. Professor Allison gave it to me," she announced proudly, showing him a piece of paper with the information.
Tomás took it with a kind gesture. "Thanks. I'll do my part too." He adjusted the collar of his shirt, uncomfortable with the topic he was about to address. "Sunny told me some rumors have spread... because of my reckless actions."
Anais laughed nervously. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm truly sorry. I'll think about how to fix it. After all, it's my fault. I don't want to cause you any problems."
"Don't worry, I told you. I don't care what some people say. They're just meaningless comments."
"That's true..." Tomás lowered his gaze. A shiver ran down his spine. Was he really that unattractive? Was it so unthinkable that someone would want to be with him? "Anyway, I don't think the gossip will last long. It's about you being with me, after all. What woman would want to date me, right?"
Anais quickly interrupted him. "Tomy, I didn't mean that. I mean... I don't care if they make things up. The important thing is that we know it's not true."
Tomás gave her a forced smile. "If you say so... Anyway, I have an idea of how to fix it." He made to leave. "Thanks for this. I won't forget it."
For some reason, those final words caused Anais a strange feeling of coldness. As if something inside her had suddenly emptied.
The key turned in the lock without difficulty. The darkness of the house immediately enveloped him, as if completely swallowing everything that had happened that day. At that hour, no one was home. Just him. That's why he had taken a part-time job, and lately, he had thought about looking for another. Not because he urgently needed the money, but because being home meant nothing more than that: solitude. And when he was alone in his room, the inevitable desire to write flooded him. But lately, he was dry. Nothing came out of him.
He turned on the kitchen light and began preparing enough food for two people, without even turning on the television or playing music. For some reason, being home was painful. Especially when his cousin wasn't there. She was the only one who brought some light to that shadowy place.
He wasn't an especially good cook, though he had become a decent helper thanks to his job. Between eating packaged food and cooking for several days, he preferred the second option. He knew his mother wouldn't do it.
He remembered that when he was in elementary school, his mom used to cook. At least when his father still lived at home. But when he left, everything changed. She changed. And he... too, though not as much as she did.
The food was ready in forty-five minutes, a time during which the only sound was the spectral echo of his work in the kitchen. When he finally sat down to eat, he pulled out the note Anais had given him from his pocket. He thought about the professor. He was definitely going to go see him. He needed him.
The front door opened heavily. There were few options of who it could be. And when a woman barely over thirty appeared in the doorway, her black hair pulled back in a perfectly neat ponytail and a penetrating gaze, Tomás knew.
Their eyes met in the almost dark environment, lit only by the kitchen extractor fan.
"Welcome home," Tomás greeted, his voice tense. "Dinner's freshly made. Do you want to eat?"
"Serve me some," she replied dryly. She moved unhurriedly, leaving her blazer and purse on the armchair before sitting at the table and rolling up her sleeves.
"You're early. How strange."
Tomás took out a plate and cutlery. "I didn't have a shift today. I still haven't found another job, so I have some free days."
"I see..." Her tone bounced off the walls with coldness.
He served a plate of croquettes, rice, and salad. It wasn't a feast, but it was the result of years of trying to cook something decent. In the beginning, when he decided to start making his own food after so many years of packaged meals, he used to ask his mother what she wanted for dinner. The answer was always the same: Does it matter? It's just food.
Over time, he stopped asking. He learned to identify which dishes she left untouched, which she half-ate, and which she completely emptied. It was the only way to know what she preferred. He never managed to discover what her favorites were.
"I'm going to skip morning classes. I have plans."
His mother didn't take her eyes off her plate. "Do whatever you want, as long as the school doesn't call me."
"And I'll be late too. I have to work tomorrow."
He observed her in silence, with painful attention. "I'll find another job soon."
"Do whatever you want, as long as your grades don't drop," she repeated indifferently.
He felt something tighten in his throat. "I hope you like the food."
She looked up. "Does it matter if I like it?"
Tomás gave her a sad smile. "Somehow, it matters to me."
He received no response. Only an insurmountable abyss between the two of them.
She stood up. "You don't even have to do it, I can eat at work if it's too much effort for you."
Tomás smiled at her, but it was a clumsy, uncomfortable gesture, an automatic reflex that failed to hide the pang he felt in his chest. Because, despite everything, he loved her. Despite her coldness, her indifference, that distance that had settled between them like an impossible-to-close crack.
"That's not what I meant," he murmured, in a lower tone, almost a whisper. "I just wanted you to like the food." He took a deep breath. This happened too many times. Too many conversations that died before they even began, too many words that fell into an void without finding an echo.
"I'm going to bed. Have a good night..."
He looked at her one last time. His eyes were moist, but he forced himself to hold back the tears. It would be useless to show them. It wouldn't change anything.
"You can leave the dishes in the sink."
With that, she turned and walked away without waiting for a response. He knew there wouldn't be one. There were no bridges left between them, only an abyss. And that abyss could no longer be bridged.
He locked himself in his room. It was still early, but he wasn't in the mood to study, or to write. Not even to think.
When morning broke, Tomás prepared to leave for the hospital. It was still early, so he decided to take the long way and detour towards the beach.
He hadn't been able to write anything at all the night before. Neither that night, nor the one before, nor the one before that. The ink had dried inside him from the moment he made the gravest mistake of his life. He felt the inspiration on the tip of his tongue, or rather, at his fingertips, but he didn't know how to tell that story. Because some stories hurt too much to write.
It had been an impulsive act, a youthful idiocy that now seemed ridiculous, if not for the scar it had left on his pride. It wasn't that he truly felt something deep for his coworker. No, deep down he knew that. But even so, her rejection had opened an emptiness in his chest that was hard to ignore. As if he had been betrayed. As if, somehow, he had expected the world to be a little less cruel.
He remembered her words perfectly. "Sorry, I don't see you that way."
Of course. How could he confuse the kindness of someone older with love? Perhaps his perception had failed, or perhaps, in an act of self-deception, he had wanted to believe that things could be different. But no. He was good at reading that kind of atmosphere. He wasn't naive, or a dreamer. He knew no one fell in love with him just by looking. He knew it hadn't just been kindness...
Or had it?
Doubt gnawed at him. Was it possible that she had provoked this situation just to see him fall? Had it been a matter of vanity, of feeling that control over another human being?
He remembered her face when she gave him the answer. The expression she had rehearsed in his mind. Just as he had imagined it. "I'm sorry you were mistaken, but I don't like minors."
He laughed bitterly as he approached the edge of the beach. At that moment he had felt stupid, but now, with the distance of time, he understood that at least he had been freed from uncertainty. He had pulled the thorn from his chest, although the wound still bled and the scar sometimes stung.
Perhaps the pain would diminish with time. Perhaps it would turn into nothing.
But it still hurt.
He had tried to offer her a helping hand, a gesture of goodwill towards her and her mentor, but that hand had been ignored. And now, every time their shifts coincided, a strange resentment ran through him like a cold sweat down his back.
He went down to the beach and took off his shoes to walk barefoot on the sand. The sea breeze enveloped him with its salty scent, and the sound of the waves, with their eternal ebb and flow, carried away a part of his bitterness.
At least here, on this solitary beach, no one could betray him. No one could deceive him.
Hours passed quickly when one was lost in thought, especially when those thoughts brought back old doubts and poorly healed wounds. When he finally decided to return to the path to the hospital, three long hours had passed.
The journey was quiet but long. He wasn't going to the city's central hospital, but to one specializing in cancer. And only when he stood before the facade did the word cancer take on a real meaning.
Professor Krikett's days were numbered. The idea hit him harder than he had anticipated. He felt as if he were standing before the gallows, watching the rope that would soon fall on his mentor.
Could he bear to see him like this? Would he be able to stay by his side without feeling pity, without compassion gnawing at him?
He entered the hospital and went directly to the reception. "Good morning, I'm looking for Emanuel Krikett. I'm his student and I've come to visit him. Would that be possible?"
The receptionist looked down, typed something on her computer, and then looked at him with a strange expression. "This is the second visit the professor has received. Do you know if his family will be able to come see him?"
Tomás pressed his lips together. "I doubt it. If they haven't come until now, maybe they don't even know he's here. Or... they prefer not to know."
"I understand." She hesitated for a few seconds and looked back at the screen. "Normally we can't give medical information to anyone who isn't a close family member, but..." her fingers drummed on the keyboard before continuing, "his condition isn't good. He has stage three stomach cancer. The treatments have failed and the last tests are pending to confirm stage four. The doctors have given him, at most, six months to live."
The receptionist sighed, with something akin to guilt in her expression. "He's very down. He has no strength or will to fight."
The words were a dull blow to Tomás's chest. He felt his blood run cold in his veins. But he didn't react.
He wasn't the one dying. The one facing death was his professor. And he was doing it alone.
He took the elevator to the top floor of the hospital. He looked for the room number, and when he finally found it, his chest tightened with a pang of anguish.
The hallway was too quiet. Disturbingly quiet.
He stood in front of the door. And, for the first time in a long time, he felt fear.
He took a deep breath.
He entered.
Professor Krikett was sitting by the window, observing the ocean with an empty expression. His face was gaunter than the last time he saw him, his skin paler.
He turned when he heard the noise. When he saw Tomás, he smiled slightly. But even that gesture seemed to cost him.
"Boy..." his voice was weak. "What brings you here? Did you even skip classes? Don't you think it's too much effort for an old man?"
Tomás leaned against the wall, the large window behind him. "Perhaps it is, but it's necessary. Can I ask questions?"
"Go ahead, please. For this moment, we are two in the same train car."
"At least at this station."
The professor let out a faint laugh. "That's right. Can I start?"
Tomás gestured for him to continue. "Why are you here? I didn't expect anyone from school to visit me."
Tomás frowned, with something akin to a bitter smile. "Wow... I didn't expect you to have so little faith in me." He looked away. "I'm here because you allowed me to get on the same train you're taking."
The professor smiled subtly. "You're a good boy. I appreciate your visit, but it's best if you leave. I don't think it's pleasant to come see a dying man, much less when you exude so much life."
"Death is never pleasant. But we owe each other at least this."
The professor looked at him tenderly. "You're not the first to come. One of my students came before you. You've already met her. She's the teacher who will take my place."
Tomás clicked his tongue. "Now it all makes sense. It couldn't be any other way." He looked out the window, blinded by the sun's rays. "That woman had the audacity to ask me for my manuscripts. As if I'd let her lay a hand on my work."
"Life is unfair, Tomás. And she hasn't had it easy either." The professor sighed. "I'll ask you something: don't underestimate her. She's a better writer than you think."
Tomás didn't respond.
"Professor..." his voice was barely a whisper. "Perhaps you cannot accept such an infamous end. But all pain ends at some point."
The professor closed his eyes and offered a final smile. "I hope so, Tomás."
The young man remained silent.
He knew he would return. He couldn't abandon him.