The story
Mateo had waited twenty years to return to the clinic where his life had shattered. The news that the body of his newborn daughter, whom he had named Lucía, would be available had pushed him to face the morgue's basement, a place the city rarely showed to the living.
The security guard, Carlos, pointed him toward the gray steel hallway, lit by fluorescent lights that flickered like tired heartbeats. The echo of his footsteps resonated between the brick walls, and the smell of disinfectant and cold metal crept under his nose, reminding Mateo that he was about to cross an invisible border.
Upon reaching the refrigeration chamber, the door squeaked as it opened, revealing a steel refrigerator that kept the bodies in perpetual stillness. Inside, among bags of ice, rested the small body wrapped in a white sheet. Mateo, with trembling hands, removed the sheet and placed the little girl on a steel tray. The silence was so dense that the beating of his own heart could be heard.
As he unbuttoned the tiny outfit he had bought for Lucía, an icy sensation slid down the back of his neck. Mateo felt that someone was behind him, watching him over his shoulder. The presence had no shape, but the pressure in the air was palpable, like a shadow settling over the light. For an instant, the temperature dropped several degrees and a draft of air with no origin swept through the room.
Mateo tried to ignore the sensation, concentrating on the delicate task of dressing his daughter. Each button he fastened seemed like a whisper lost in the gloom. When the little girl was wrapped in her tiny blanket, an interior voice arose without sound: a prayer his mother had taught him when he was a boy. He recited it in silence, as if the words could break the veil surrounding them.
With Lucía's body in a wooden box, Mateo closed the casket with a dull thud that echoed in the void. He felt a sudden urgency, a need to leave that place before the presence became more intense. He turned around, picked up the box, and headed to the hallway, where the guard Carlos was waiting for him.
"Is anyone else here?" Mateo asked, his voice trembling but firm.
Carlos, with his flashlight aimed at the man's face, nodded.
"You're alone, sir. There's nobody else in the area."
Mateo nodded, not daring to look back. Upon leaving the basement, the daylight hit him like a slap of reality. The noise of the city, the bus horns, and the murmur of the people reminded him that the world kept spinning, even though his heart had stayed trapped in that cold corner.
As he walked toward the elevator, a final sensation swept through him: the certainty that, although the presence hadn't said a word, it had witnessed the purest love and the deepest pain a father can feel. Mateo carried the casket to the car, knowing that, somehow, the invisible gaze had kept the memory of his little Lucía, and that the impact of that encounter would accompany him forever.
