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The father came in afterward.
Not running.
On time.
The rest happened the way it had to happen.
The girl saved.
The right man.
The wrong animal.
The story closed.
When she came back days later, the house no longer smelled the same.
There was something clean in the air.
As if someone had put in order even what can’t be seen.
She sat in the same chair.
The rope was still there.
She didn’t take it down.
—They’re going to say you were defeated.
It wasn’t a question.
I asked for forgiveness.
Not for what I did.
For what was going to stay.
She cried.
Very little.
Just enough so she couldn’t forget.
She asked me not to do it.
Not to turn myself in.
But there are things that can’t be corrected.
They can only be held.
As I was leaving, she picked up a piece of paper from the table.
It had a folded corner.
She gave it to me.
Then the pen.
And then she did that.
That gesture.
The one she always does.
A soft tap on the snout, like ringing a bell.
—So you don’t forget who you are.
Now I write this where no one comes.
In the deepest part of the forest.
Where the earth is not disturbed
because no one wants to find anything.
I comply.
Not for justice.
For consistency.
Because someone has to hold
what others need to believe.
But if someone ever finds this paper,
let them look at the door first.
Then the rope.
And then think
whether everything really started where they were told it did.
Because there are stories that don’t make mistakes.
They get built.
And when that happens,
the monster
isn’t the one who arrives.
It’s the one that was already inside.
– S. C. – The wolf
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Santiago Copí 