Clara moved to the edge of the bed. She didn’t scream. Not yet. There was something in her chest that wouldn’t let her, as if the air refused to escape.
He extended his hand.
He hesitated.
She withdrew it.
Then, almost angrily at herself, she grabbed the corner of the sheet and yanked it up.
A lock of hair. Long. Dark. Not hers.
That was it.
He didn’t need to see any more.
His body stiffened, as if someone had replaced his blood with glass. For a second, two, three… nothing. No thought. No logic. Just a raw, direct, almost animalistic sensation.
Then came.
A wave.
Hot. Violent.
Clara dropped the sheet as if it burned her. She took a step back, then another. Her breathing became ragged. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t screaming. It was worse. It was that kind of silence that comes before something breaks.
Turn.
He left the room.
She walked to the living room without looking back. Each step was firmer, heavier. The house, so tidy just a few minutes ago, now seemed like a well-arranged lie.
He looked around.
Her eyes were fixed on the broom, leaning against the wall.
She went straight to her.
She took it.
She didn’t pick it up immediately. She held it for a few seconds, as if that simple object needed to become something more, an extension of what she felt.
“Of course… of course…” he murmured, almost voiceless.
The thoughts didn’t come in order. They tumbled over each other. Images, suspicions, memories that now seemed suspicious. How long? Since when? Who was that woman? In his bed? In his house?
He gripped the broom tighter.
The wood creaked slightly under his hand.
He went back to the hallway.
Every step was different now. They were no longer short. They were decisive. Hard. As if each footstep were an answer.
He stopped in front of the door.
His breathing was heavy.
He lifted the broom.
And right at that moment—
A door opened behind her.
“¿Clara?”
The voice.
I knew her too well.
He turned around.
Her husband was there, coming out of his son’s room, his hair disheveled, his face still marked by sleep.
It took him less than a second to understand what he was seeing.
Clara, with the broom held high.
The bedroom door was open.
Silence.
“Clara, wait!”
He lunged towards her.
Too fast.
He grabbed her arm just as she started to lower the broom.
“Let me go!” Clara shouted, now her voice breaking and heavy with emotion.
He didn’t let go of her.
“Listen to me, please!”
“Listen to you?! What am I supposed to listen to?!”
She tried to break free, but he held her tighter, not hurting her, but not giving in either.
“Mateo!” he shouted toward the other room. “Wake up! Now!”
A movement within the room.
The sound of sheets rustling.
A sleepy voice.
“What’s happening…?”
