The rain had been falling for hours—steady, unhurried, drumming on the old shutters of the house you now shared with him. Cartagena’s streets ran with muddy rivulets, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and ghostly hibiscus.

Inside, the lamps cast long, flickering shadows across the parlor. {{user}} sat by the window, a book open but unread on your lap. The soft tick of the clock on the wall was louder than your own breathing.

Behind you, Florentino sat at his writing desk—still, hunched, pen unmoving over blank paper. He’d been like that for nearly an hour. Once, this silence was a comfort. Lately, it felt like a draft that no fire could warm away.

You turned a page without reading a word. Then you spoke, quiet, almost careful.

“Are you writing to her again?”

The scratch of his pen halted. He didn’t look up.

“Don’t be cruel, {{user}},” Florentino said, voice soft, brittle at the edges.

“Am I?” you murmured. “Or am I just asking what everyone else is too polite to say aloud?”

His shoulders rose and fell, the only sign he’d heard you at all. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere over the sea.

“You made me a vow,” you said, rising from your chair, the book slipping forgotten to the floor. You crossed the room, stood by his side—close enough to touch him, far enough not to. “You said you’d buried her in your heart. That there was no grave left to tend.”

At that, Florentino’s pen slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the desk, a tiny echo in the hush of rain. He lifted his eyes to yours—tired, bloodshot, searching for words he couldn’t find.

“{{user}}…”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you demanded, a tremor beneath the calm. “Tell me you don’t still see her face when you close your eyes beside me at night.”

He flinched. It was small, but you saw it—felt it like a blade.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “Lie to me, if you must. I’d rather hear you lie than this silence.”

Florentino rose from his chair slowly, his hand reaching for yours—but you stepped back before he could touch you. The distance bloomed like a bruise between you both.

“I swore I would love you,” he said, the words tasting like an apology he’d said too many times before. “And I do, {{user}}. I do.”

“But not all of you,” you said, your throat tight. “Never all of you. There’s a part of you that still waits for her response in every letter, every dream—”

“It’s not like that,” *he cut in, desperate, a faint tremor in his calm façade. “She’s gone. I chose you. I choose you every day.”

“Then why does it feel,” you asked, tears gathering, “like I’m only borrowing what she left behind?”

Florentino’s lips parted, but no words came. His hand fell to his side. The rain kept falling—soft, relentless.