The rain had started falling again.
Not the rain of storms, nor of drama, but a slow, almost tender rain that seemed to want to wash everything away without succeeding.
Catarina watched the drops slide down the window.
They left pale trails, like scars on the transparency.
She had spent the day tidying up, without any particular goal in mind.
Putting everything back in its place, as if external order could restore internal order.
But nothing really took shape.
Every room, every object still seemed to bear his mark.
A shadow on the wall.
A memory in the silence.
And above all, that notebook, lying on the table.
She sat down.
The paper still smelled a little of smoke, the smoke of the Ashbourne house.
She caressed the cover with her fingertips, hesitated.
Then, slowly, she opened it.
Between two pages, a slight crease.
A piece of crumpled, yellowed paper.
It wasn't a letter.
Just a scribbled sentence, like a trace of another time:
"Writing is another way of holding on to what we cannot keep."
She couldn't remember where the sentence came from.
Perhaps from a book he had recommended to her.
Perhaps from him, quite simply.
So she picked up a pen.
And, without really thinking, she began to write.
"Sylus,
I don't know why I'm doing this.
Perhaps because the silence is too heavy, or because there are some things you can't bury without naming them one last time.
Since I left, I've been telling myself that it was the only way out.
But in the morning, when the coffee is brewing, I still feel like I'm there.
When the rain falls, I hear your piano.
And when I close my eyes, I hear your voice saying my name like a prayer that we're not allowed to say.
I resent you.
For leaving me with too many questions.
For teaching me to love in a way I will never be able to replicate.
But I hate myself even more for not being able to hate you.
You used to say that silence always wins.
Maybe.
But tonight, I want to believe that he is still listening to me."
She put down the pen.
Her fingers were shaking, as was her breath.
The sheet of paper, still wet with ink, glistened under the lamp.
She reread the words slowly, one by one.
Then, in a sudden gesture, she folded it in four.
She wouldn't send it.
She couldn't.
She tucked the letter between the pages of the notebook and closed it.
And when she looked up, the rain had stopped.
The world seemed suspended.
As if even the sky was holding its breath.
She breathed softly:
"It's over."
But deep down, she knew it was a lie.
Because there are letters that are never sent, but always find their way.