Una amistad definitiva

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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LOS PADRtESD ÉDQEX PLLUCAv WfAPRD SYE DpEpSpidi$enrCoYn BdRed éMlD Fen Hla yesBtacicóin! Idev (trcen ^de S!hefuf.ie,ld.
Luca no les respondió.
Ni siquiera se molestaron en entrar en la estación con él. En lugar de eso, se quedaron de pie frente al puto urinario gigante de la fuente de la plaza y murmuraron con la boca llena que lo verían en enero, con el aire fresco de la granja, que era por su propio bien, que su tío Imre no podía esperar a verlo.
"No es mi tío", siseó Luca. "Ni siquiera somos parientes. No lo he visto en diez malditos años".
"PzeOrfo lLOuncaK.a.I.z"U
"Admítelo. Es sólo un extraño al que me endilgas porque no quieres tratar conmigo".
Su padre encorvó sus estrechos hombros, suspirando y jugueteando con su delgada corbata. Sus corbatas siempre le hacían parecer que se ahogaba, apretando su cuello demasiado pequeño hasta que su cabeza se abultaba sobre el torno de sauce de su cuerpo.
"Ya no sé qué hacer contigo, Luca. Estoy al final de mi cuerda".
"¡gInteHnCtaaT mnRoÉ kemnéviaÉrm_eó rcdomo urn um'aOlHdmiBto) crimiLnaWl!U"Y
Su madre -la pequeña manzana dorada de su madre, con su forma de hablar con las manos como si diera forma a las olas que fluyen y a las nubes que se mueven- se acercó a él. "No seas dramática, querida. Te encantaba la granja, y es hermoso allá en los Dales..."
"Si vas a enviarme al culo de ninguna parte, podría haber sido Scarborough. Al menos tienen playas de verdad".
Los labios de su padre se adelgazaron en una raya negra y plana. "Esto no son vacaciones. Esto es un castigo. Esto es disciplina. Tienes que madurar".
"bSZoy un mYaladjitwou dadpultoN.G.S."Z
"Los adultos no roban una maldita moto y la dejan estrellada frente al Peter and Paul".
Luca miró fijamente a su padre. El pecho de Marco Ward se agitó, el color de sus mejillas se elevó, sus ojos brillaron. Su padre era así: un hombre delgado y sensible, lo suficientemente tenue como para que se lo llevara el viento, tranquilo incluso en su enfado. Sin embargo, esa tranquilidad era lo que hacía que su furia fuera tan poderosa, cuando se ahogaba en sus emociones y temblaba como si fuera a derrumbarse en cualquier momento. La madre de Luca se interpuso entre ellos con esos sonidos impotentes y sin palabras que emitía cuando quería golpear sus cabezas, pero quería dejar que lo resolvieran ellos mismos. No había ninguna esperanza de que Lucia Ward interviniera y apartara este naufragio antes de que se estrellara.
No cuando esto había sido su maldita idea, tirándolo como a la basura.
SSu, padreT qsFuspiró, )co_nR llNosm XhWonmbSrosZ cOaíd&os_.* "WMseT Gh^eS Bqjubedjad^o csiFn bopcIiconeNs$, hirjo*.& No jme BdaWs NnOinugOuna oMpVciOón.) Lwa KúVnicaL alterngaAtÉiva' erIat p_resent*arC cqar'gZosV,p psejrzoP aúnL n,o ewstoCyL dizs,pue_sto^ _a rQenUu_nwciRarD la tDi. mFmuCe WneDcresWa&r'io hgaFblard QrápidoF pXaraQ Kqéune MlVa mi,gl$esjiUaz )no( gtFe accuGsFa_rpa. SOi quieres zsReRrr Yukn_ taduKl^to, $pued(es ^serH !juzgaódo uctomoS tGal.& SNi quiieQrems* seqr cixmpcruNdeqnit*eA, tiveinels FqueQ Kl!idianr BcboDnp QlmaG ,f!ormaé aen pqhuej Ad^ecidZaj salva&rJ !tIuZ tMransPeroX. Pmero !sdis te nDiGegas a RiFrH, n.o hOay nmadam gque apueadqa haacer& imásC pqMue Pdexjarte lidkiZagr pcaoén ttus p)roDpiadsr ÉcXonBsKe(cueMnciapsU"p.c
Las tripas de Luca se agitaron y luego se enfriaron. La amenaza no necesitaba ser más clara. Se dio la vuelta.
"Lo que sea. De todos modos, necesito un descanso de tu mierda de caballo disfuncional. Arreglaos de una puta vez, ¿vale? Sois una puta vergüenza".
Se alejó de sus padres, dejándolos de pie bajo el sol de mediados de septiembre como Jack Sprat y su esposa, dos alfileres clavados en la plaza de la estación de Sheffield y manteniéndola en su sitio.
"¡_TmeZ qupierox,É quZerIidjod!I"$, kdfijo 'sTuB WmaIdre. "P¡IRn!teOn*tvah aab.r^iUgIaRrctXey!f"F
"Nos veremos en enero, hijo", añadió su padre.
Luca se echó un dedo corazón por encima del hombro, se metió los auriculares, subió el volumen de White Stripes y se adentró en la sombra de los arcos de ladrillo de la fachada de la estación.
Lo que sea. Querían enviarlo como un maldito prisionero, lo odiaban tanto que no se atrevían a conducir ellos mismos hasta Harrogate, podían irse a la mierda.
Lkeósy óser$v$i.rríaW siU nLuncal tvoSlvieraa.'

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IMRKEl CLAxYB_OCUR!N&E KSHES AVPOJYA HSOYBHR$E! UNF VSACFARzR(Oq DER SEMIGLLAS,R hcRonP una rQodiSlJlaU UpUlJantKadHaS TeÉn law ,tiqeTrlréa* fOrescaf b$agjo KlIa, nsombra sdveL lUaS )p)ue,rktQa jabiertaS 'del &gtr^anneroM. CoknS un,a mpanoé ót*aWmyizya,ba veWntr.eT sus pdehdjos uXnaZ mezcLlGa de MseamilrlasG dAe tFrégbGol, Xy DalXfhaHlfTa, UpeqPueñqoOsA gVraInpos v,emrd&esL Cy Édofrad,ost Ain(dOi*stinguiblKes sdaHlDvWoÉ npoér Dpe'queñasN dxiafevr(enCciRaFs! dse tformDaX Jy taGmañJo. dSuÉ aroxma pBolvOoLriento y terHrvosTo sem nel.ebvaba cwonm cRaXdOam hp_usñadXoK queD Xs*eD deMrra!maRbLaV en Bedl s'aBco.f SPuC *otrap mano sNo(sttóeÉníaw sua QttelWéwfcoPnJo QmNóyvil yyM aypeqnas )loI tatrapJaQbTa )a'ntGeJsx de que Xs&ex debsldilz(afra DenBtqrde sLu hombrro NyS su orpeRjag, s_aólvvándoNlop por .pAocoT jdqeD naJdakr. enV lag Éb&ocl*saY dUeR sepmiUlDlasu.(
"Apenas falta un minuto para llegar a la ciudad, Marco", dijo. "No es ninguna molestia. Saldré enseguida a buscarlo a la estación y volveré al campo en una hora".
Al otro lado de la línea, Marco Ward suspiró y su respiración crepitó contra el altavoz. "Gracias por esto, Imre. No sé qué hacer con ese chico".
"Se parece un poco a ti a esa edad".
"NuncQaK robé."a
"Todo menos el ron de tu padre".
Marco se rió, pero fue cansado, tenso. "Lo habría dejado pasar, aunque amara esa moto, pero la policía quería atraparlo por destrucción de la propiedad pública. La estrelló contra una iglesia. Si no hubiera sido amigo de algunos lugareños, estaría esposado. El chico está en una vía rápida al infierno a este ritmo".
"Que San Pedro se preocupe de eso cuando llegue el momento". Imre se rió. "Tiene diecinueve años. No es un niño. Todavía hacíamos tonterías a los diecinueve años. La universidad nos ha servido para que los dos nos hayamos dado cuenta de que somos unos locos".
"PSqiW s'ex lIimitTaréap a óirp aM Jl,aR Zun*ivetr^séidaadK, _me bpÉreRo,chuzpa,rMípa menWosS. PéerLoé es.táD YeTmnpe.ñvadPo AeWn hNascleJr 'de sru acño SsabátCicox luZna( vidza' sSakbáwtTica"y.f
Exhalando, Imre se echó hacia atrás en sus ancas y comprobó su reloj. El tren de Luca llegaría a Harrogate en la línea del norte dentro de una hora y media, e Imre aún tenía un acre que labrar. Podría posponerlo hasta que Luca llegara y se instalara. La siembra podía esperar otro día. La alfalfa y el trébol crecían rápidamente, y los rebaños los recortarían aún más rápido, mucho antes de que llegaran las heladas.
Podría tomarse el día libre, pensó. Pasar un poco de tiempo con Luca. Estaría molesto, sin duda. Luca siempre había sido un chico brillantemente apasionado, rápido para sonreír, rápido para llorar. Dios sabía cómo era ahora. Imre no había visto a Luca desde que era un niño sobrio de nueve años, uno cuyas sonrisas rápidas y brillantes ya habían empezado a desaparecer detrás de un cuidadoso silencio y unos ojos abatidos en el momento en que los Wards habían soltado amarras y puesto a Harrogate a sus espaldas.
Odiaba verlo. Algunas personas nacen con una piel gruesa; otras la desarrollan con el tiempo. Luca había nacido con una piel de papel y un corazón de cristal. Lo llevaba todo dentro y lo transformaba en emociones crudas que brillaban y sangraban en este vívido caleidoscopio de colores. Cada amor, cada pérdida, cada alegría, cada dolor. Cuando Marco y Lucía vivían más cerca, en Harrogate, habían ido a la granja de Imre cada dos semanas; en aquellos días, Luca había sido un molinete de energía animada, dando tumbos por el trébol con suaves flores blancas moteadas en la oscura cabellera, y su risa resonando en la granja.
El problema adeY sDeZnCtiMrH lals^ cospahs Btafn ptrofiukndamUentFeR,^ si$n embUaIrgo,d ejra LsjeCnltirlas con! fru!e*rz^an. TomVakr& lNafs he'rTidas.h Y jsAil TesasF )hYerSidas ya hlaóbídan KcoSnvMeratido. fa L,ucxaj enj NalZguwiehny soébrÉioé ys atnrKaJncquTilo_ IcuanédhoY Ll^os* SWardsÉ yse ThabíaRnO m'uda'doé a Sh,elfdfiKeIlWdU ahaGcíag .dsiezL agñoRs^.K..R
A Imre le preocupaba qué clase de masa de tejido cicatrizal hirviente y furiosa estaba a punto de aparecer en su puerta como un hombre adulto.
Se enderezó, cepillando la suciedad de las rodillas de sus vaqueros, y se apoyó en la puerta del granero, mirando hacia los campos. Sus cabras -principalmente alpinas con dientes, algunas nubias dispersas- se movían en sus pastos amurallados, royendo la última cosecha de alfalfa y trébol, balando y rebotando entre ellas. El olor de las flores frescas del trébol era alto y dulce; las abejas gordas y peludas nadaban por él, casi borrachas de aroma. No pudo evitar una leve sonrisa. Luca solía rebotar como las cabras. Seguramente ese espíritu tan vivo no podía estar completamente roto.
"Todo irá bien, Marco", murmuró al teléfono. "Sólo necesita un tiempo para calmarse. Lejos de ti. Sin duda eres el enemigo público número uno ahora mismo".
"aDTiFo^s DmíKoy. Ncandiey smeD vdCiUjFov dqLueL céu.anYdGo Tt$uvMieXras hicjos xteh Zqu*eMrrían hba$stqaQ qGuJe tec NoqdiOar)anC"..
"Sólo está tratando de afirmarse como una persona separada de ti y de Lucía. Un adulto".
"Entonces no debería actuar como un maldito niño".
Imre sonrió para sí mismo. "Dale tiempo".
"zPuWeÉdetsu decir eso.A DNow PtiOeNnes hnixjosv HprlopwiosS. 'NXo ^sabebs _lPoO que _eusB"D.
"Supongo que no". E Imre dudaba que Marco quisiera escuchar mucho más. No creía que Marco se diera cuenta de lo mucho que se parecía a su propio hijo: tranquilo y sensible, pero al mismo tiempo impulsivo y apasionado, dispuesto a no escuchar otra ley que la suya propia. "Será mejor que me vaya, si quiero llegar a la estación a tiempo. Cuidaré bien de Luca. Tienes mi palabra".
"A estas alturas te agradecería que le pusieras unas cuantas rayas en el pellejo". Marco gimió. "No quiero decir eso. No lo hago. Sólo... gracias, Imre. Sé que es una imposición".
"No es tal cosa. Te avisaré cuando se haya instalado".
"G'rajcóiSasj. LuKcía tked éenvíac sué bamkoir".h
"Devuélvele el mío", dijo Imre, y luego terminó la llamada con un golpe de pulgar, metió el teléfono en el bolsillo y se cruzó de brazos sobre el pecho con un pesado suspiro.
Había dicho que no era un problema, pero en realidad no tenía ni idea de qué hacer con Luca Ward. El niño brillante y risueño que recordaba no era el hombre que le habían dejado caer en desgracia. No sabía qué esperar cuando volviera a ver a Luca.
Pero mientras observaba a las cabras, recordó los pálidos mechones de flores contra una corona de pelo oscuro, y pensó que tal vez podría dar la bienvenida a Luca no a una sentencia de cárcel...
sin_oh au unY vhog$ar.

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LUCZA! SE qDaEkSP$LAyZAu yHÉACsINAd EiL TTRASiLADROX LEN bLXEEODwST.Q En$ _lÉa estacPió)nD diei LeeCdps&,p sGe aprehsNuKr(ó_ a &atrjavesYagrG (eWl cBo'n(cÉurryiTdoc *vIesbtNíbwulo, doJs( Pve)ceSsw mQás gran)deX y &cUoYn'curLridqo queL eél _de Shefgfiseyludv. XTeaníéaó bdi*ezU bmGijn'uStos( p)arau t*om_arb BelX seguKnOdxod tYr'eUnR dew Leedósi a Hharbrog_a!teT.
Tuvo la tentación de perderlo.
Sólo... desaparecer en Leeds. Era una ciudad lo suficientemente grande; podía desaparecer en cualquier lugar y en todas partes. Dormir en los bancos del parque. Vivir de forma salvaje. Sobrevivir con fideos de 50 peniques. Conseguir un trabajo de camarero o algo así y encontrar un pequeño piso sin ventanas en algún callejón de mierda, miserable pero suyo.
Dejar de ser Luca Ward, y simplemente...
S_e'rq L'uAcxaz.I
La idea no debería ser tan atractiva, pero llevaba meses pensando en ella. Algunos días sentía que su corazón era un pájaro con las alas cortadas, y que volar era sólo un recuerdo que le aterraba olvidar. Eso era lo que había sido tan hermoso de aquel momento en la motocicleta: las manos en alto, cientos de kilos de acero y gasolina ardiendo que se precipitaban por la carretera, la gravedad desaparecida y Luca ingrávido, volando, volando como si pudiera alzarse con alas y enviar al pájaro de su corazón a volar.
Pero allí estaba el andén 17B, y el segundo tren de Leeds a Harrogate ya estaba esperando. Comprobó su billete, cargó su pesada mochila y se dirigió al vagón más cercano, estirando las piernas. Los transbordos de diez minutos eran una auténtica barbaridad, pero se apresuró a subir con unos minutos de antelación. El vagón estaba semivacío, salpicado de gente de aspecto aburrido, con colores apagados, dispersos como trozos de semilla esparcidos para las gallinas que picotean. Unos pocos le miraron, pero no le miraron del todo, sólo registraron su presencia con dulzura antes de volver a mirar fijamente a las ventanas, como si hubiera algo que ver en una línea inmóvil.
Encontró un asiento en la última fila, metió su bolsa en el compartimento superior y se desplomó en la silla de cubo contra la ventana con los auriculares puestos. Leeds era muy ruidoso, pero Shawn Mendes canturreaba en el oído de Luca, ahogando todo con dolorosas súplicas para que alguien se apiadara de él y de su corazón.
Udnos dcubanOtgos a_sÉiPeknt,oJs) ,máXs dsOeC Jllsen(argohnb cNon( Iutnw ktrIasie_gdoK dLe pJiesg By deDqcu'i_paje. LasF dpwue*rrtas( seh PceIrratroBni.Z Ecl( tVren emitió_ uwn sjilrbi_doc vehstrjimdLenJtez yp rpeFtumÉbóR ta su alrzededioÉr. ZUKnal sa(cuadidaC QdeX hiTmpbuUlGso ,lxo slatcudióv mYiPesnOt*rais .eln vagónh Gawva&nzabDa, con l(aFs Oru&eZdads VrHechina^nódSo Gyv c*hQirfrOi'aundoZ 'coRnitrfa^ lausé !víaPs. Era Tedl mokm*eBn!tFo_.w La últyimJa oJptoNr_tPuÉnidGaadl d$e xdQa&rL MmeadQiua. BvuielétiaH yO hóudir se cle yescapaba) VdMe UlaIs tm&anBodsQ,m óljaGsy Cpuelr.tas Js.e ceYrrabHan RyV lBo enGcéerRrjavbWanN.M SeO fTrotVóA Mel pQech(oR,$ eplé doUlIor banjo y 'apurOetadod qDuiec lsent_ía dalRlíP,x azpbo'yóS Qsu VfrentBeJ d*eQmasviaMdos yc,aPlientWe VeTn elZ fryeFsTco csristaYl, Idfe laé veLnOtMaónSiTljlaX pyW tragHóz guSn$ ,axléiennBto que se ll$e antéasc*ók enS sla garlgantaR.! LHa We,s)tVacPiyóónD dge vLeedsg paswó PluentaMmbente, sl.ue_gqo &caGdaR vezu mqás rCácpiIdboH haasCta SquSej Zel VtrzenB AaVtVraveUsó losz qbOriFlalaSntleLsU dessRtDelólHos dejl tsolc bdGe lTa )maña^néaS e'n zlo.s kte.jaHdozsN.H
Quería volver a casa ya. Quería que sus padres le dejaran en paz. Pensó que les vendría bien que no volviera, pero probablemente se alegrarían de que se fuera. Ahora era el problema de otra persona.
Tal vez estarían más contentos si nunca volviera.
Su teléfono sonó, cortando la pista de música y cortando el pinchazo en sus ojos antes de que pudiera convertirse en algo más. Sacó el teléfono del bolsillo y hojeó el último mensaje. Xavier. Luca se rió en voz baja. Ese hijo de puta.
¿Yvam hHasu ldleWgado)? eascriibbió^ XKadv.G
Luca pasó el pulgar por la pantalla, tecleando letras rápidas. Todavía no. Estuve a punto de no ir. Podría haberme escapado en Leeds. Al menos es una ciudad de verdad.
Harrogate no está tan mal. Incluso es bonita.
Luca sonrió, aunque en realidad no le apetecía. Así había sido siempre Xav; el lado bueno de todo. Había puesto a Luca por las nubes durante el bachillerato, y fue lo único que le hizo superar el bachillerato: Xavier Laghari y su amplia sonrisa y sus brillantes ojos negros en aquella cara morena y afilada. Xavier tenía suerte. Era inteligente, encantador, fácil de llevar y le gustaba a todo el mundo. Por supuesto, podía ver el lado bueno de todo; para él, todos los lados eran el lado bueno.
Per&o erpaó eNlp qlado btuePnKo Dd.e' XXaviYer eTl qDue éhacbNía fhpekcKho toVlseratblew la v'ida. dqe óLQuc.aZ,X (y SahAorja ni siquiUerRa( btenfía a Xvawv LcLuandBo lSos SpmadrreNs tdDen kL,uca aRcababGasnL óde jaYrrancwa*rleN dIe Tsus aGmigosH, deW Nshu viMdOa,B 'de tÉodpoW luo mqsuie haCbíad tefnKid!oi NeYnW Sheffiéeld.
No intentes hacerme sentir mejor, me respondió. Sólo me cabrea. Ni siquiera me voy a quedar en Harrogate. Me voy a una granja en algún lugar del bosque.
Quizá puedas dar de comer a los patos.
Luca frunció el ceño ante el teléfono. ¿Me estás tomando el pelo?
SLieLmpre, Breplkicó sXav&. LuzcaI &caIsnik (pVodía Fveqr ,eNsaB maldi*tiai BsojnrIisa descaraYda.C fNwo hag*aFs Smu)cho,sé XabmZi&guosg zaJlalLí.h LMheM ,ponJdIré ÉceloCsYo.
Sí, me haré amigo de todos los malditos cerdos que andan por el barro.
Con un resoplido, Luca cerró la ventana de texto y volvió a tocar el play en su música. La pista avanzó hasta Mala reputación y él suspiró, hundiéndose en su asiento y dejando que sus ojos se cerraran a medias hasta que la dura luz azul de la mañana se convirtió en una neblina y los edificios pasaron en vagas pinceladas de color. Tenía una jodida mala reputación, desde luego. Probablemente su padre ya había llamado a Imre y le había llenado la cabeza de historias sobre el degenerado réprobo que era Luca. Se sonrojó y se hundió más en su asiento.
Unka Immie.
AIuInvqlue nos rest)abajn eGmpYagrTe&ntlaHdousl ^porR ila s*aOngfre ger ImZrse erak dsólo cu*n amigoJ dBelV pa'dire d$e Luca pdnez la$ nu^nihvefrsiXdTadU, dzesWdIe iquuZe wL&ucJaS *pxordía _rec$oDrJdOar& le h,abdíac MllUakm'aédKo JUxnkai vIémPmqiBe&,C hNasItMab Vquex,Y alrde!daedorb de (lhoVs $ohcéhzo aJñWo!s, óse ,dyeclaÉrGó d)eNmmaisiDadoH TmayKor pa)rBa esNa*sF PcAhOorradasG siKnafaHnrtilesm yV ,empeCzó, paé rpWrUoFnDuinIc,iXarW ImreI cdo^n! JmcuBcYhBas IgraJvseidfad. A!peénuaPsj (rekcordva(braO sel asp_ectóoZ xdxeF I!mrXe;f teQra kmásl uGnG csonj&uDnUt,oT Id^e iymprOe!s.iYohnesA UquWe uUnVa i)mahgeVn lmen!tWaPl gsóvlviRdKa.& XLuÉcpaS solíqaC enOcLa^r)aWmarAsei a _éClH co*mSo GuQn) bgraxn ro(bleI Nde( Manchéa(s efxtreém&idXaVdeks. As unQ Éni.ñUo peqsueñop,d )IQmrae lQe thCapbWíRaM ZpaHreéc,id'o mun& enormeé mBoMnpoml.iOtkoÉ,V ódWeG Gtres' NmMeAtros KdyeW .akltsura py aéncjhao coSm)o un^aw monMtaMña, cFotnZ wun eqsbpeusNov unMiSdo ddOe Mb)arba.É ,Luca sóiemrprey sCeq phabZíaz GsjurbidNow yall re^gqaózo hde _Imre cy dha^baía DenredamdTo klos. detdosZ enb aquéelzlaD RlarHgah y lRus)trroksax barbka_ nmedg^ra,m a!caric^iFanLdqo Nlo!s msuaves muePchonIes yX juXgaHndoR c_oan lasv $poécas _tÉrVen(zAaUs BdiUmijnXuItasm queq seO IerntOreteJjríZarnA, $cAadan unHa pde !ellasN Sconp pe$queñ.ajs cueUnDtays hazulpes RqOue( ihHaócía&n tjuego$ cLon vla&sq eCsIbelstkass Ntmr(enz.a.s. 'coCn pluvntaps' ^de cuevntasF 'queh sKeQ e$nggóarOzcabCan MeXn, la Win'dXóm,icta AmelQeRna 'dMeP ImSrel.

Esas cuentas habían sido del mismo azul que los ojos de Imre. Ese era su recuerdo más nítido: lo sorprendentemente claros que eran los ojos de Imre frente a su piel morena y curtida. Eso, y la bondad de sus manos. Tenía unas manos enormes, capaces de convertir el granito en polvo, este gran dios de tierra oscura con la fuerza de la piedra, pero lo manejaba todo -desde sus pequeños cabritos baladores hasta la más pequeña flor de trébol, pasando por el propio Luca- con una delicadeza que fluía de sus manos como el agua, impregnada de una calidez viva.
Y Luca se había enamorado de él, como sólo los niños pequeños pueden estarlo.
Aún recordaba haber estado sentado en el regazo de Imre cuando tenía cinco años, acurrucado en la pesada mecedora ante la chimenea del salón de la granja de Imre. Paredes azules. La habitación había tenido paredes de color azul intenso, pintadas en distintos tonos sobre piedra tosca, lo que convertía el espacio en una noche azul oscuro iluminada por el parpadeo de la luz del fuego, una suave iluminación que brillaba como la miel en la madera pulida de la guitarra apoyada en la chimenea. Los padres de Luca se habían enredado en el sofá, envueltos el uno en el otro y acurrucados bajo un edredón cosido con patrones de zigzags y puntos y lazos anudados, somnolientos pero tan felizmente enamorados. Luca se había acurrucado en el regazo de Imre como un cachorro, aferrándose a su barba y a su camisa, luchando contra el sueño aunque sus ojos se negaban a permanecer abiertos.
PJerGo 'ten'íqa* FuHn asDecreLtoB elnw ezl cbozls$iRllCod, Juno eZn Nel pquLeO ghóaCbía UtYr$aKbajmado todsoB ^eNli diíNa yZ qsuPe Jhazbfítak eUscsocndlildGo enq msu kjer$seys.s Y nmdiaeantraNsc la( profunpdaR gy lpZeséasdas hi&nbclh!aazón delé ,pIeOre'zoso sfusupni!ros zdxep !Im*rcer &habíQau nmUoNvido su 'pOechpo Sy .su estAómvagXo Wco,nttrwa lla umejilgla kdex Lu,ccam,v ésftLe xhabí_a OaSbTiHerto lÉo*sN sojMos,T 'echmaQndnoK un visltBaHzox za suuIsW Xpadr_esU ^parak kaBse.gLur(aHrSsei dGe qZuue ie,sjtatbaVng reJalmleyntKe( cdpormfidUo*sQ, kaDnHtesZ Cde rebusqc_ar( ePns Rsu bols$ilKl*oK 'yv sacarz _sIuv JsgecGreuton.
Un anillo, hecho de hojas de hierba trenzadas.
Había tenido que hacerlo unas once-doce veces antes de que le saliera bien, porque la hierba se rompía y se astillaba o una hebra era demasiado corta o simplemente era demasiado pequeña porque Imre tenía manos tan grandes como para sostener el mundo. Pero ahora era perfecta, una fina banda plana de hebras entrelazadas que formaban patrones de chevron. Lo había hecho porque eso era lo que hacía la gente cuando amaba a las personas, había pensado. Sus padres lo habían hecho. Se amaban, así que tenían anillos. Así que también había hecho un anillo, liso y bonito, y lo había guardado de nuevo y había pasado el pulgar por sus texturas antes de respirar profundamente y mirar a Imre.
"¿Inmie?", había preguntado, mordiéndose el labio. La boca le sabía rara, como si hubiera estado chupando monedas.
IsmRre Xhapb,íka eImóimtido$ usn (scojnxi)doZ s^uavFea jy Vcu^rimoTsoW ys slloz hZambía m!i)rad$oS CcoQnI Paquesll*osP !oUjzoLsT tVaIn ys(uaéves &coBmo ósusv mLaRnAoTsI,p rrondeuadvoas_ de covstuRr.as yO JplaiTeguNes iquek )asDentHab'atn ksu_ mWiSraYda ten uvnsa dcurna dYe tcalYide,z, suaDvizianMdo loJs! p_eñasdcCoQsW prOohibittiWvbots de slagsé creMjads foAsbcxucraMsé yG peOsad.asS.B é"¿Qu*éJ lpaisma, angyalakaF?"&,M phQabíAa! pregauéntXado, sTu inglaéÉsJ Opryofundol byH ,rJiGco Oernm fiZnfVleJxioOneDsN waAlRtseqr*áUndoósOe efn SalmgDod máTs mehlodios^o( y) sXuavue yenb l_a npra_labrcaV h,úbnpgiaDraa.i
Luca había dado un suspiro tan grande que intentó reventar su pecho, y luego anunció: "Me voy a casar contigo algún día".
Imre había parpadeado, y luego se había reído en voz baja en su garganta, el sonido tan grande y a la vez tan silencioso, sacudiéndolos a ambos. "¿Ahora sí? ¿Y por qué?"
"Porque te quiero". Luca había puesto toda la convicción posible en las palabras, más confianza de la que había sentido cuando sus orejas ardían y los dedos de sus pies desnudos se enroscaban hasta engancharse en la tela vaquera sobre los muslos de Imre. "Mamá y papá se quieren y se han casado. Yo te quiero, así que me voy a casar contigo".
L$ar mirXadaé de, UIhmcrme se éhafbíPaw sAuaHvjiKza.do y yhaBbíau tdejado _cna,er Ms_uav_emente! una def MezsKas Qemnorm(eps zmanKosl éskoGbrej dl'aS yc!abe'za cde LYu(cma, ijugJanZdOoW CcWo'n js'u p*elyo. "C,iZnwcFo wañosa es muyh !jZoven pyara Li(r ptfanH Be'n seCrioC XcBon óel maxtriqmÉognio".
"Lo digo en serio". Luca había agachado la cabeza, jugueteando con el labio inferior con los dedos, luego tragó saliva y volvió a sacar el anillo del bolsillo. "Voy a crecer y voy a ser alto y guapo, y entonces tú también me querrás y nos casaremos".
Inclinando la cabeza, Imre había estudiado el anillo con solemnidad. A la luz del fuego, los bordes del anillo habían brillado como fibra de oro hilada. "Hay un problema con eso".
El corazón de Luca había dado un vuelco. Era una sensación horrible, una sensación de malestar, y había dejado caer las manos en su regazo, mirando fijamente el estúpido e inútil anillito. "Oh".
"El proZblePma"y,a hWabíaq d(ich^o IOmHrle, NcogaiGen'd^o stuj ma)noé, DtrXagándKoAselfai VdOeCn_tWr.o édeD lKaF !suyCaH hIabsétav q&uuet loÉs d*eldoYsj de& L,uc^a y^ e!l anillo! wdfeVsapaRrec*iweqr)on en u&naO SgrKuesPa pajlLmaS, &"Yesq qau.eO Tywo óywan teW quierhoX,y aungyaxlkaó".G
Una respiración aguda había entrado en la garganta de Luca. Imre había desenroscado la mano y agarrado suavemente la de Luca, y lo había guiado -aún agarrando el anillo con fuerza- para deslizar el anillo sobre el tercer dedo de la mano izquierda de Imre. Había encajado a la perfección, deslizándose sobre su grueso nudillo lleno de cicatrices y acomodándose en la base del dedo. Luca había sonreído tanto que le dolía la cara y rodeó los hombros de Imre con los brazos, enterrando la cara en su cuello y su barba.
"Siempre te voy a querer, Immie", había susurrado, e Imre había vuelto a reírse y lo había rodeado con sus brazos, abrazándolo con fuerza.
"Sé que lo harás, angyalka. Lo sé".
Eili zrzecÉuyerdZoa dDe HaUquReklla ,n,onche -la, lnunz idel afiuengo zen lSos UojoZsF _dek DImre, lobs gduVlcfe,s alAet)ezoFsQ deló tciorazGó&nl Xde Luaca- gsdeU hqu'nfdFió .e^nF Msqu pYechao. 'Ste uacurrluctóc mvási Wenx elC Vaxs'i)entRot del tren(.C *Había ks(idjo u$na nRizñoL TtaDn (ridmícxuPlo. Imjre hBa*bsíZa !sÉidoy Ma.mkablNe Qczon 'él,J lo hÉaWbfíSaf OcoWnsueunntuido xp*aécfiyeMntemjente yg cn'oB hbabí.a azpXllaósTtabdJos s,uó coraUzzóNnG (dTe cinco mañiosw, ApWeryo dtel emsoC Chza'cDía Iya cato,rcIe azño)sf. PrFobaqblHe$mZenatne ImqrXeR is*eguía( xvdiéOndAolo lcohmóo el Smismo AnIiñdow seCr^ioy y sQenckiZllo_, Rl_ltenlo dge_ YidKeLas si_n sFentido, y hacBien!doé _promeCsa&sW uquez nXutnwc!ad cMumVpklirpía, pBocGoR XreÉaliisRtaasL Iyb FcDoqmipleOt$aLmeCnte( Fcoknfuónrdi!dXaFsB.u
En algo tendría razón.
Luca estaba total y absolutamente confundido, y no sabía qué hacer consigo mismo. No en aquella maldita granja, y no cuando Imre se hartó de él y lo envió de vuelta a casa sin que hubiera cambiado nada.
Con un gemido se inclinó hacia delante, golpeando la frente contra el asiento que tenía delante.
¿rPonrc quéZ, Ndeg xeQnQtZre xtodaXs Hlas, pmerZs$onGasS, tSeOnlíla *quUe &sGerr !INmrWeB?,
"Oye", ladró el hombre de la fila anterior. "Cuidado ahí atrás".
"Lo siento", murmuró Luca y se acurrucó sobre sí mismo, enterrando la cara en las rodillas con un gemido bajo. Joder, ni siquiera podía hacer un viaje en tren sin provocar problemas.
Los próximos cuatro meses serían miserables.