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There are days that start before you wake up. Days that make no noise but change everything.
At 6:35 on a Tuesday like any other, the day came in without asking. The sleep broke inside. Something else too.
It was still dark.
She got up without wanting to. She didn’t want to, but she had to.
Eyes half open, dragging the weight of other days, she breathed in. A moment later came the smell of coffee. The timer had worked again. A small domestic miracle that started the day every morning.
She crossed the hallway without turning on the light, moving through the half-dark she already knew by heart. She stopped in front of a door covered in children’s drawings. She opened it very slowly.
There she was.
Peacefully asleep.
A girl of five who took up her whole life. Cira. Her daughter. Her light. She watched her for a few seconds, as if wanting to make sure everything was still where it should be.
She yawned without making a sound and went to the bathroom.
She got ready fast. Got dressed. Then went to the kitchen.
She made sandwiches. Left a carton of milk on the table. Then checked the food containers she’d prepared the night before for when they got back from school.
She sat down. Breathed. Took a long sip of coffee.
She looked at the clock.
7:13.
She had to drop Cira at school by eight to make it to the breakfast program they offered there. That also let her get to work on time, at 8:30.
She went back to the room. Turned on the light. Went to the bed and kissed her carefully, as if the air could break something invisible. As if it were the first kiss. As if it were the last.
—Mama… already?
—A little longer, the girl murmured. Please.
—Come on, Cira. I have to work and you have to learn.
The girl got up reluctantly. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Looked at herself in the mirror without really looking.
—Mama. I’m little. Do I have to go?
—Breakfast first, she answered patiently.
The rest was the usual ritual. Backpack. Lunch. Jacket. Lights off. Set the alarm. Lock the door. Car.
At 7:55 Cira got out in front of the school. Quick kiss.
—See you later, Mama.
She ran through the nursery door. Her mother waited to see her disappear inside. Waved one more time.
Then got back in the car. Sat down. Breathed deep.
—Let’s see what today brings, she murmured.
She checked her phone before starting the car. There was a new message. She didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. She left it there. The screen went dark on its own.
She started the car.
At 8:25 she parked in front of the office. Before getting out, the steps were already in her head. Twenty-seven. Always twenty-seven. She’d been doing it for months, like someone checking the ground is still there.
She got out. Walked to the entrance.
Juan, the guy at reception, said good morning.
—You look really nice today.
She didn’t answer.
Walking into the office, Pilar from accounting came over in a whisper.
—Hey, Sofía… has Luis paid the alimony he owes you yet?
—No.
—It’s just, I saw him out this weekend with a blonde…
Sofía looked at her without flinching.
—And your Manuel? He good?
Pilar looked down.
—Yes… good, thanks.
Sofía kept walking toward her desk. Before she got there, Javier looked up.
—Has the boss come in yet?
—Not yet.
—Has he been bothering you again?
Sofía forced a smile.
—Not yet today.
She sat down. Adjusted the chair. Again. Every day the same. It seemed to shift on its own. Like her life. Since everything stopped being fine.
Sofía opened her computer. The fan started up with that soft sound that always seemed to arrive before the day itself. The screen took a few seconds to come on. While she waited she looked at her phone again.
The message was still there.
“Come by my office when you get in.”
Nothing else. Always nothing else.
At the back of the office footsteps were heard. Footsteps of someone who isn’t in a hurry because they know everyone else is. The conversations dropped in volume. That minimal shift in the air was enough to know he’d arrived.
At 9:03 the phone rang.
—Sofía.
—Yes.
—Come in for a moment.
The office had a different temperature. Stiller. As if the air had learned to wait.
—Close the door, Luis said.
Sofía closed it. As she turned, she saw the photo. Two small children on a beach. Smiling. She’d never heard him mention them.
The click was small. But enough.
—I’ve been looking at some of your reports.
There were no reports on the desk.
—They’re not bad.
The word “bad” hung in the air between them.
—But there are things you could do better.
—Of course.
—Especially if you wanted to.
When Sofía got back to her desk, the report was still open on the screen. At the bottom of the document a new comment had appeared.
“Review approach.”
No indication. No explanation.
She read the report all the way through again. Then again. She tried to imagine what it meant to revise something nobody had defined. After a few minutes she left the cursor blinking, as if the screen were also waiting for something.
Mid-morning someone organized coffee in the small room. Several people got up. The conversations continued as they filed out.
Nobody looked at Sofía. It wasn’t a coordinated gesture. It just happened. As if the silence had passed an invisible order.
Sofía looked down. She couldn’t remember having done anything differently. That was what unsettled her most.
That kind of thing doesn’t happen all at once. It happens slowly. Like dust.
At two she left the office. Walking to the car, she counted again without meaning to. Twenty-seven. The same ones.
She drove to the school. Cira ran out when she saw her.
—Mama!
The girl talked without stopping. About a drawing. About a friend. About a dinosaur that didn’t exist. Sofía listened. But part of her mind was still in the office. In the closed door. In the photo of two kids smiling on a beach. In the sentences that never finished.
At home, Cira dropped her backpack on the floor.
—Are you tired today?
—A little.
—My teacher says when you’re tired you have to breathe deep.
They made lunch.
—Mama.
—Yes?
—Are bosses always in charge?
Sofía put down the glass she was drying.
—Sometimes.
—And if they’re in charge in a bad way?
Sofía took a moment to answer.
—Then someone should say something.
—Who?
Sofía looked at the window.
—Someone.
That night, when Cira fell asleep, Sofía went back to the living room. She opened the laptop. Blank page. She breathed slowly.
Fear gets tired of waiting too.
She typed one word.
Complaint.
She looked at it for a moment. Deleted it. Typed it again.
This time she didn’t delete it.
In the other room something moved. Small footsteps. Cira appeared in the hallway half asleep. She had a drawing in her hand.
—Mama.
Sofía crouched down.
—What is it?
The girl held up the paper. The sun was still there. Big. Yellow. But now it had something new. A dark circle around it.
—What’s that?
—So nobody can turn it off.
Sofía hugged her. A moment. Just a moment. Then took her back to bed.
When she came back to the living room, the laptop was still lighting up the table. The word was still there.
She closed the laptop.
Outside, the city the same. The cars. The lights. The conversations nobody hears.
Somewhere in the house, the alarm was waiting for 6:35. As if nothing had happened. As if nobody was going to say it.
Santiago Copí
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Santiago Copí 