The sky was clear, but the early autumn wind was already announcing its arrival. Dry leaves crunched under Tomás's feet as he walked along the path in Memorial Park. The silence of the place wasn't cold or solemn, but peaceful, like a long pause in the middle of an ordinary day.
He walked unhurriedly, holding a small bouquet of orange and white gerberas in his hands. The same flowers he had left so many times on his mother's grave. The same ones that spoke, without saying anything, of love, gratitude, and gentle goodbyes.
He stopped in front of the tombstone he knew by heart.
"Emanuel Krikket.
Father. Professor. Friend.
Thank you for every word you left within us."
Tomás smiled sadly and knelt down carefully. He gently placed the bouquet next to the stone. Then, he took something wrapped in paper from his bag and laid it on the grave as well.
A copy of his book.
The published edition of "Seasons of Loneliness."
"I know I told you this book was for her…" he murmured, "but it was for you too, Professor. Without you, it never would have existed."
He remained crouched for a few more seconds, in silence. The wind ruffled his hair and the collar of his coat, but he didn't move.
"I've moved forward…" he continued. "I got into university. Literature. Just as you once told me, not to be afraid of it. And yes… I'm still working at the Big Root, of course. Don Giorgio is taking it easier now, though he doesn't fully admit it. Laura says she's going to start expanding the business. And I… well, I'm still writing. As always."
He looked at the horizon for a moment. There was an oak tree not far away, its leaves already starting to turn red.
"Thank you for listening to me. For trusting me when I didn't even know which way I was going. But most of all"—his voice barely broke, though he smiled as he said it—"thank you for Sofía.
I know it wasn't planned. But you were the first to see it. The first to look at us with that expression of yours that said everything without needing words."
He sat down on the grass in front of the tombstone, his arms resting on his knees.
"She… she left. A few months ago now. She won that literary prize and is now abroad. You helped her write again, breathe again. You know? Sometimes I think she loved me as much as I loved her. And other times… simply having known her is enough.
I don't know if she'll come back. And, although a part of me would always wait for her, I also understand that she had to fly. You said it: one must learn to let go of those they love."
Tomás looked down at the book.
"But the story is here. What we lived. What I learned with you. What she taught me. It's all here, in these pages.
And I'm glad you can have it. That you can see it, even from where you are."
His fingers touched the cover one last time.
"It's strange. I never thought I'd be standing here, after everything.
And yet, I feel at peace.
I'm not afraid of what's coming.
Just… I wish I could share it with you one more time.
A cup of cheap coffee, a long conversation, and that way you had of looking with those grandfatherly eyes of yours that knew everything."
He stood up slowly, took a deep breath.
"Thank you, Professor. For your kindness, for the silences, for making me feel seen when I needed it most.
And for reminding me that, sometimes, someone just needs to be listened to to find their way."
He adjusted the bouquet slightly; it had tilted in the wind.
"I brought you flowers. It's nothing much. But at least… they're not a goodbye."
Tomás took a step back. He stood firm for a few more seconds.
Then he turned.
And without looking back, he left.
The autumn breeze gently stirred the pages of the book on the grave, as if someone invisible were delicately caressing them.
As if the Professor, in some corner of time, had begun to read.