Clara
A few days have passed... Not many. But enough so that silence ceases to be scandalous and becomes something constant, almost installed on the walls of the house.
Ethan is still here. He moves naturally through the corridors as if he had never left. He works from the living room or from the garden, with a laptop resting on the wrought iron table that was always under the lemon tree; He speaks little, intervenes only when necessary, takes care of calls that I don't want to answer. It solves things that I don't have the strength to face.
I watch him more than I should.
That morning I see him through the window. He is sitting in the garden, phone in hand, concentrated. His slightly furrowed brow when he listens, his straight posture, the way he makes decisions without hesitation.
