There are afternoons that seem normal,
afternoons filled with harmless light,
afternoons that don’t warn you
that something inside you is about to break.
But that afternoon wasn’t.
That afternoon stayed still in the air,
as if the world itself was holding its breath
not knowing how to go on.
I remember the strange silence,
the kind that isn’t peace,
but a warning.
I remember the sound of the wardrobe,
slow, forced,
as if the whole house
wanted to close itself off and not look.
And then the screams.
My mother’s voice,
breaking against the door
again and again,
as if pain alone could open it.
“Please…”
“don’t do it…”
“please…”
And I was there.
Without strength.
Without words.
Without anywhere to hide from fear.
Then everything became too fast.
Sirens cutting through the air,
doors breaking,
footsteps that didn’t ask permission,
only urgency.
And the stretcher.
Always the stretcher.
With its yellow bars,
shining as if they didn’t understand
what they were holding.
I watched it pass.
I really saw it.
And that is what never fades.
Not the noise,
not the voices,
but seeing.
Seeing without being able to change anything.
Seeing without being able to close my eyes.
Seeing myself trapped inside a scene
that never truly ends.
The door of the house open.
Cold air coming in without comfort.
My aunt running,
as if arriving could save time itself.
But time was already broken.
And ever since,
that afternoon returns.
Not as a soft memory,
but as a wound that learns how to repeat itself.
As if my mind still doesn’t understand
that we already survived that moment.
And the saddest part is not the afternoon.
It’s that when I close my eyes,
I am still there.