20 de abril

A letter that remained without an envelope. With a date written in the corner of a notebook and melancholy creeping in with the evening silence. Each word sounds as if it is being dictated by an empty room - the very one where a noisy company once gathered, and now the echo responds only to someone else's memories.

There is tenderness and slight awkwardness in these lines: suddenly the addressee has long been in another life, with children, new habits and morning breakfasts, while the author still holds an old cassette from the nineties in his hands. And yet the letter stubbornly goes forward, not asking for a reply, but secretly hoping for a line in response - even if it's just an emoji or a fragment of a phrase.

Memories of the night at the ‘cabaña del turmo’ sound like a refrain, like a password in a forgotten club: once everyone laughed together, but now the laughter seems to have been replaced by silence. And all that remains is to admit: people change. But how sweet it is sometimes to find an old melody, to feel again those who were ‘before’.