She did not hide the book. She did not enshrine it. She simply let it be one story among many.

On page 62, Mariana burned Tomás’s favorite sweater. Clara stopped reading. She walked to the closet. Miguel’s side still held his flannel shirts. She touched the sleeve of the blue one. She did not burn it. She folded it neatly and placed it in a donation bag.

For six months, the book remained unopened. Its cover—a silhouette of a man walking toward a distant lighthouse—became a totem. Clara would sit in the chair, hold the book, and not open it. She traced the embossed letters. She smelled the glue and paper. She placed it back.