He always said the same thing…
-What for? -sighed my best friend Agapito as he looked out the window, his eyes lost in the ochre tones of the fallen leaves. If nobody reads them…
He said it with resignation, but he never stopped writing.
Every morning, the same ritual: he woke up before the sun, when the city still slept wrapped in a warm silence. His house, a small, modest building with worn walls and shelves full of worn books, was his world. She would turn on the coffee pot, letting the aroma of coffee fill the air with its comforting warmth. Then he would sit at his desk, always in the same spot, where the dark wood was scarred by time, with deep grooves from countless years of writing.
He took his pen, an old black ink fountain pen that belonged to his grandfather, and with the delicacy of an alchemist he traced the first words of a new story.
He wrote without rest. He had no readers, no audience waiting for his stories. And yet, his hands never stopped moving over the paper.
Her stories were small fantasy worlds, full of magical creatures and endearing characters. Stories of elves who stole stars to make lamps in their caves, of brave girls who built bridges with their own hands to cross rivers of doubt, of cats who talked to the moon and pirates who searched for invisible treasures. His stories were like him: simple, humble, but full of love.
He never asked for anything in return. He never tried to publish them. For him, the act of writing was enough.
Sometimes, when we insisted that he should share them with the world, he would just smile and shrug his shoulders.
-I don’t write to sell. I write because I like to think that, even if they never reach the children, they are there, waiting to be told.
Was it a resigned acceptance of his fate or an unwavering faith in the magic of his words?
Years passed, and the pile of notebooks grew. They were everywhere: on dusty shelves, stacked in forgotten corners, inside drawers full of loose papers. Each sheet was a reflection of her soul, a piece of her hope.
Then came that morning.
I went to visit him, as I always did, and found him in his room. But this time, I did not hear the strumming of his pen on the paper.
His bed was tidy, his face serene, as if he were simply asleep. His hands rested on his chest, clasped, with the peace of one who has done his work in the world.
On his desk, his last unfinished story. And next to it, a note written in his unmistakable handwriting:
“If ever my stories find a reader, I hope they give them a smile. If not, at least the wind will carry them where they were meant to go.”
I stood there, the note trembling in my fingers. I felt a lump in my throat, a mixture of sadness and admiration. I looked at the notebooks, the mountains of stories that never reached the children to whom he had wanted to give an instant of magic.
I didn’t think too much about it. I picked up the first one and started reading.
And then something wonderful happened.
As he went through his stories, Agapito came back to life. I felt him in every word, in every story he had left behind. His tired laugh, his slow gestures, his love for stories… it was all there, waiting for me in the pages.
He could not allow his legacy to be lost.
I gathered her notebooks and began to share her stories. First with friends, then with acquaintances. Someone took them to a school, and little by little, Agapito’s stories began to travel.
And one night, I heard what he had always dreamed of: a mother telling one of her stories to her son.
And the boy smiled.
And in that instant, his eternity was assured.
From MasTorrencito we wish you a good day and may your dogs be with you!!!!
—
If you want, you can see our vouchers for weekends, retirees vouchers, at an incredible price …enter www.mastorrencito.com or if you want you can read more history and anecdotes that have happened to us in Mas Torrencito … Click here
