The airport's private concourse pulsed with a subdued energy. Plush carpets muffled my footsteps, as my parents and the escorts made their way toward the private jet. Around us, the gleam of stainless steel and leather contrasted with the opacity of the tinted windows. The buzz of foreign language conversations and the soft murmur of ambient music created a sophisticated yet distant atmosphere.
With each step we took, the attention of the few passengers present turned toward us. I felt their gazes fixed on my back, as if I were an insect under a microscope. My mother, elegant and serene, walked beside me, forcing a smile. My father, as always with his jaw clenched, seemed shielded from the outside world.
Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks when I heard a shout. There, in the middle of the crowd, was he.
"Josephine! Is that you?" He exclaimed, trying to approach me with a smile, but he couldn't achieve his goal, as I had to continue on my way.
The escorts gently tugged on my arm, forcing me to move forward. I resisted for a moment, but finally, he let me go. I turned around to look at Josep one last time, until I saw him disappear into the crowd. After two years without hearing from him, he appeared out of nowhere, and just as quickly as he reappeared, just as quickly he disappeared from my sight.
As we reached the plane, the escorts fanned out, protecting my family as we ascended the steps. I paused for a moment at the jet's door, watching the airport as it quickly receded. I remembered my days at school with Brianna, Anna, Louie, and Josep, the laughter I shared with my friends, and the feeling of freedom that filled me. A lump formed in my throat, and my eyes filled with tears.
Inside the plane, the luxury was overwhelming. Soft leather armchairs, touchscreens, a kitchenette, and a spacious cabin invited relaxation. I sank into one of the seats, feeling the softness of the upholstery against my skin. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the engine noise and focus on my thoughts.
The twinkling lights of Paris spread out like a blanket of stars beneath the plane. I clung to the window, watching the city draw ever closer. A lump formed in my throat as I remembered my last encounter with Josep. Would I see him again? I wondered.
As I landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of being there again, visiting my beloved older sister. The hustle and bustle of the airport, the sound of different languages, and the excitement of travelers reuniting with their loved ones created a vibrant atmosphere.
The escorts, as always, surrounded me, guiding me through the terminal. I felt like a porcelain doll, being manipulated from one place to another. My mind wandered, thinking about what my stay in France would be like this time.
As we left the airport, the fresh air of the Parisian night enveloped me. My sister's chauffeur was waiting for us with a luxurious sedan, ready to take us to the mansion. As the car glided through the streets of Paris, I watched the city lights alone.
The car stopped in front of an imposing mansion. I stepped out, admiring the building's classic architecture. The front door opened, revealing a spacious and elegant foyer. My parents preceded me, closely followed by escorts.
A tall, slender woman with an air of superiority greeted us at the entrance. It was my beloved older sister, Esperanza.
"Josephine, it's so nice to see you." Her voice was cold and distant.
Without waiting for a response from me, Esperanza turned on her high heels, the echo of her footsteps resonating on the polished marble floor. "Follow me," she ordered without even meeting my eyes, as if my presence were a mere formality to be attended to.
I followed her through a series of opulent salons, each decorated with a studied coldness. Antique furniture upholstered in austere silk, paintings of somber landscapes framed in heavy gold, and delicate porcelain vases that seemed to forbid any contact. There was no warmth, no trace of personality to suggest a joyfully inhabited home. It was more like a private museum, a showcase of wealth and status.
As we walked, I felt the inquisitive gaze of the escorts on my back, as if waiting at any moment for me to commit an infraction. My mother maintained her serene demeanor, although I could sense a subtle tension in the way she clutched her bag. My father, like a granite statue, moved forward silently, his jaw still tense.
Finally, we reached an immense living room, lit by a crystal chandelier that cast cold glints on the silk-paneled walls. Esperanza paused in front of a white marble fireplace, where a fire crackled with almost robotic efficiency.
"Your room is ready," she announced, her voice devoid of any affectionate tone. "We will have dinner in an hour. Please be prompt."
Without further ado, she gestured to one of the impeccably uniformed maids, who approached me with a silent bow. "Follow me, Miss Josephine," the maid said in a soft, barely audible voice.
I followed her through endless corridors, up a seemingly endless spiral staircase. Each footstep echoed in the silence of the mansion, amplifying my sense of isolation. Finally, we reached a dark wooden door, which the maid opened with a silent movement.
The room was as impersonal as the rest of the house, though generously proportioned. A four-poster bed covered with heavy silk bedspreads dominated the space. An antique desk stood by the window, offering a distant view of the maze-like gardens. In one corner, a spacious walk-in closet seemed to be waiting to be filled.
"If you need anything, miss, just knock," the maid said with a slight bow before withdrawing, closing the door behind her.
I was left alone in the room, feeling the weight of the silence and the coldness of the atmosphere. I walked over to the window and looked out at the gardens, a maze of perfectly trimmed hedges and still water fountains. It was beautiful, yes, but it lacked the spontaneity and warmth of the gardens I remembered from home.
A sigh escaped my lips. This wasn't a visit to my "dear older sister," as she'd tried to convince me on the plane. This was something else, something indefinable that hung in the air like a shadow. Esperanza's coldness, the oppressive formality of the mansion, all contributed to a feeling of unease that settled deep in my chest.
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the stiffness of the fabric beneath my fingers. The bracelet Josep had given me shone on my wrist, a small beacon of warmth in this sea of coldness. I missed him deeply, his smile, his humor, the way he made me feel seen and understood. Here, in this imposing mansion, I felt more invisible than ever.
Dinnertime was approaching, and with a resigned sigh, I got up to get ready. I dressed in the formal clothes I had brought, feeling like an actress playing a role in a play I didn't understand. Looking in the mirror, I saw a pale and distant image, barely recognizable as the Josephine who had said goodbye to Josep at the airport.
With a knot in my stomach, I left the room, ready to face the next scene in this strange family play. The echo of my own footsteps echoed in the hallway, accompanying the growing feeling that my stay in this Parisian mansion would be far more complicated than I had ever imagined.
I felt like a stranger in my own family. When I arrived in the dining room, I sat at the table, surrounded by portraits of ancestors and valuables. Dinner was torture. The conversations were, as always, very superficial and forced, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable.
After dinner, I went to my room. It was a spacious and elegant suite, but I still couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness. I walked to the window and looked out at the garden. In the distance, I could see the illuminated city of Paris.
I began unpacking my suitcases, finally placing the last piece of clothing in the closet in the enormous walk-in closet. I let out a weary sigh and calmly looked around the room. Its walls adorned with antique paintings and polished wooden floors exuded an air of tranquility. However, despite the apparent calm, I felt a pang of nervousness.
I headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the warm water fall over my body. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sensation of the water, but my thoughts wandered. I remembered a dream I'd had a few years ago, a vivid and disturbing dream that had left me feeling uneasy. Could this feeling be another sign?
Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a soft towel and headed to the dressing room, putting on silk pajamas. I brushed my long hair into a braid, then headed to my bed. I turned off the light and snuggled under the covers, feeling the chill of the night through the window. The clock on the wall ticked, marking the passage of time. The mirror above the dresser reflected a blurry figure, as if it were watching me.
I closed my eyes tightly, willing sleep to take me to a more peaceful place. But the feeling that something was about to happen persisted, like a dark shadow lurking in the shadows. I focused on my breathing, trying to calm myself, but my mind kept wandering. I imagined shadows moving in the corners of the room, listening to whispers only I could hear.
With a sigh, I surrendered to the darkness. I closed my eyes and let myself be carried along by the current of my thoughts, hoping sleep would reveal to me what my conscious mind couldn't grasp.
I floated in a viscous blackness, an oppressive nothingness that felt like being wrapped in wet velvet. There was no notion of up or down, only this endless suspension that stole my breath and filled me with silent anguish. It was like being trapped inside a dark thought, with no way out or solace. A pang of cold panic spread through my chest: would I stay here forever, lost in this formless vastness?
Then, a spark flickered in the distance, a flickering point of light like a lone firefly struggling against the eternal night. A pang of hope, fragile but intense, propelled me toward it. I wanted to reach for it, to cling to that promise of clarity amid the suffocating darkness. But the light danced mockingly, receding as I drew closer, like a cruel mirage feeding on my despair. I felt a growing frustration, a silent scream stuck in my throat. Why was it running away? What was it trying to show me?
Suddenly, the darkness shattered with a silent crash, as if an invisible veil had been torn. I found myself in a room that stretched into infinity, its walls and ceiling lined with mirrors that multiplied my reflection to the point of dizziness. There were countless Josephines, each with a different expression—some curious, some frightened, some even with a sadness that resonated with my own. I felt exposed, as if every facet of my being was being watched and judged by these infinite copies of myself. Which one was the real one? Was I fragmenting into a thousand pieces?
At the center of this labyrinth of reflections, a figure gradually materialized. It was my Aunt Mariela, but there was a spectral pallor to her face, almost as if she were made of smoke. Her eyes, which I always remembered as filled with mischievous warmth, now shone with a deep, unfathomable sadness that chilled my blood. A pang of pain shot through my chest at the sight of her so gaunt, so absent. What had happened to her? A dark feeling stirred within me.
She called to me in a soft, sweet voice, a melancholic melody that seemed to come from far away. "Josephine..." Her name floated in the air, laden with a weight I didn't understand. She approached slowly, her figure almost transparent as she moved. I wanted to run to her, hug her, ask her what was wrong, but my feet seemed glued to the floor, paralyzed by an inexplicable restlessness.
She stopped right in front of me, her gaze fixed on mine. Her sad eyes seemed to want to tell me so many things that words couldn't express. She leaned in and whispered a single word, laden with urgency and meaning: "Remember." Remember what? My mind struggled to comprehend, to find some lost memory that might explain this distressing sight.
Before I could respond, the room began to shake violently. Mirrors cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces with a terrifying, screeching sound, as if the universe itself were crumbling around me. Shards of glass flew in all directions, slicing through the air and reflecting distorted images of my terrified face. I felt imminent danger, certain that something terrible was about to happen.
And then, the ground disappeared beneath my feet. I fell into a dark, bottomless abyss, the icy wind whipping my face and tearing at my clothes. The sound of my own screams was lost in the immensity, a solitary wail in the nothingness. I felt a sense of vertigo and utter helplessness, certain that this fall would have no end. Was this death? Was this cold, eternal void my destiny? Terror paralyzed me, preventing me from even trying to hold on to anything.
I opened my eyes with a start, gasping for air as if I'd just emerged from the depths of the ocean. I was drenched in sweat, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. The dim moonlight filtering through the window cast dancing shadows on the walls of my room, transforming familiar objects into grotesque, menacing figures. The image of my aunt Mariela, with her pale face and sadness-filled eyes, remained etched in my mind like an invisible scar. Her last word, "Remember," echoed in my ears.
I tried to calm my labored breathing, but the sensation of free fall, the anguish of darkness, continued to cling to me. I felt like a dry leaf swept away by a turbulent current, with no control over my fate, at the mercy of invisible forces. The room, which just a few hours ago had offered me a glimmer of safety, now felt cold and hostile, every shadow a possible specter, every creak a harbinger of something terrible.
I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to erase those disturbing images from my mind. But it was useless. The room seemed to spin around me, and my aunt's voice continued to whisper in the silence of the night. An overwhelming feeling of loneliness washed over me. I was trapped in a nightmare that persisted even after I woke up, with no one to turn to, feeling dangerously isolated in this mansion.
The nightmare still pounded like a hammer in my temples. Sweaty and agitated, I sat up in bed, trying to dispel the images that tormented me. I took a deep breath, again and again, but the feeling of anguish persisted. I glanced at the clock: it was barely three in the morning.
I got up and went to the window. The city of Paris, asleep and silent, stretched out before me. The flickering lights of the buildings created a dreamlike panorama that contrasted with the nightmare I had just experienced.
I mentally reviewed the events of the past few years. Since I was little, I'd had vivid, premonitory dreams that had shaped my destiny in ways I'd never fully understood. I remembered the time I dreamed of a car accident, days before my father suffered a minor fender bender. Or that time I saw my grandmother sick, just before a heart attack. Were they just coincidences, or did my mind have the ability to predict the future?
At that moment, an idea crossed my mind like a ray of hope in the darkness. I needed a record, a diary where I could write down all my dreams, no matter how strange or insignificant they seemed. Maybe that way I could find a pattern, an explanation for what was happening to me. And who knows, maybe I could even prevent some future tragedy. Tomorrow I would ask someone to buy me a diary.
I sighed, trying to calm myself, but knowing I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, I decided to clear my mind. I put on a silk robe to cover my pajamas and left my room, trying to make as little noise as possible. I headed to the mansion's library and looked for one of my favorite books. Everything was dark except for the small light I had on so I could read. There, I was immersed in a world not my own...
The dim light from the nightstand barely reached the high shelves of the library, creating dancing shadows that played with the gilded spines of the old books. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the soft rustle of pages as I turned them. I chose a classic, "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by García Márquez. His words always transported me to a world where the magical and the real intertwined in a way that resonated with the strangeness of my own dreams.
As I read about the Buendía family and their town of Macondo, I felt a strange connection to their lives, filled with wonder and fate. Didn't my own life sometimes feel that way, marked by forebodings and dreams that seemed to predict the future? The image of my aunt Mariela in the broken mirror kept fluttering in my mind, but García Márquez's words wove a veil of fantasy that allowed me to distance myself a little from that anguish.
The hours slipped by without my realizing it, immersed in the complex relationships and extraordinary events of Macondo. The library became my sanctuary, a space where I could escape the coldness of the mansion and the oppression of my own thoughts. The scent of old paper and bound leather was comforting, like a silent embrace in the middle of the night.