"What you are going to see today, Daniel, you must not tell anyone," my father warned me. "Not even your friend Tomas. No one." "Not even mom?" I asked timidly. My father sighed, resorting to that sad smile that had followed him like a shadow all his life. "Of course you can tell mom," he replied, bowing his head. "We have no secrets from her. You can tell her everything." Shortly after the civil war, a cholera epidemic broke out, which also took my mother. We buried her in Montjuïc on the day I turned four. I only remember that it rained all day and all night, and that when I asked my father if the sky was crying, he had no voice to answer me. Six years later, my mother's absence was still a ghost haunting me, a screaming silence that I had not yet learned to silence with words.
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