My feet automatically led me to the nearest supermarket. It was considerably crowded, likely because it was the usual dinner hour. I headed straight to the butcher section, trying to ignore the curious glances of some customers who looked strangely at my large bouquet of multicolored flowers.
—Please, I need seaweed —I requested from the burly butcher behind the counter.
He nodded silently and began weighing the meat with precise movements. While performing this routine task, he looked at me with a slightly mischievous smile that made me uncomfortable.
—¡Wow, are we celebrating someone special's birthday? You even brought an impressive bouquet of flowers! —His innocent question hit me like a punch to the stomach, leaving me momentarily breathless. I paused involuntarily, feeling the familiar pain spread relentlessly through my chest like a poison. I forced a mechanical smile, though I suspected it must have resembled more of a grotesque grimace of suffering.
—Yes… —I replied in a hoarse, barely audible voice—. Today is my beautiful wife's birthday.
—¡Goodness! I must confess I'm a bit jealous that your wife is so lucky —the butcher joked, unaware of the devastating effect of his words—. Alright, here's the meat, perfectly prepared.
—Thank you —I murmured almost inaudibly, taking the package with trembling hands. I hurriedly left the supermarket, unable to bear the prying looks and innocent but lacerating questions any longer. On the way home, I passed by a colorful toy store and, following an irresistible impulse, bought a tender teddy bear. Alessia had always longed to have one for our little Violet…
Upon finally arriving home, I opened the front door with trembling hands and crossed the threshold. The living room was steeped in near-total darkness, with all the lights off, a perfect reflection of my emotional state.
—I'm back… —I announced aloud, more out of ingrained habit than expecting a response I knew would never come. The sepulchral silence that greeted me was deafening in its absolute weight.
I left my worn coat on the couch and carefully placed the freshly bought flowers in the center of the oak table. The teddy bear found its place on a nearby chair, like a silent witness to my pain. I changed clothes mechanically, my mind operating on autopilot as I performed these daily tasks that now seemed devoid of all meaning.
I began methodically preparing dinner. The seaweed soup simmered slowly over a moderate flame while I absentmindedly flipped through a worn recipe book. The familiar aroma gradually filled the kitchen, bringing with it an avalanche of vivid memories that hit me hard. Alessia laughing joyfully as we tried to cook together for the first time, her face glowing with pride when we finally managed to make a halfway decent soup…
I shook my head vigorously, desperately trying to push away those thoughts that tortured me mercilessly. I focused obsessively on setting the table, placing some side dishes from the fridge alongside the steaming seaweed soup. I carefully added a generous portion of white rice, and the table was fully set for dinner.
I gazed at the prepared table and felt my heart painfully constrict in my chest. I had set out three bowls of rice and seaweed soup. Three bowls, as if… As if they were really there. As if they could physically join me in this pathetically lonely dinner.
Throughout the meal, my gaze constantly, almost compulsively, drifted to the other end of the table. There, on a polished wooden shelf, rested a framed photograph. In it, Alessia and I smiled carefree, tightly embraced. Her slightly swollen belly was evident; our hands were protectively intertwined over it in a gesture of infinite tenderness. In front of the photograph, I had reverently placed one of the most beautiful flowers I had bought that day.
—It's the first time I've made this recipe on my own —I murmured to the inanimate photograph—. But it doesn't taste as delicious as when you made it.
I tried to eat, but each bite was a superhuman effort. The soup, which should have been comforting as it once was, tasted bitterly of cold ashes. I forced myself to swallow mechanically, spoonful after spoonful, but the simple act seemed nearly impossible to execute.
—I'm sorry —I whispered in a barely audible voice, feeling tears inevitably welling up in my reddened eyes—. I'm sorry I can't be with you. It's your birthday, and I couldn't make it more delicious.
I abruptly stood from the chair, utterly unable to remain seated any longer at that painfully empty table. My entire body felt extraordinarily heavy, my shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of irreparable loss. Without even bothering to clear the table, I headed straight to the shower with faltering steps.
Under the steady stream of hot water hitting my skin, my thoughts ran wild like untamed horses. Why had I naively allowed myself to believe that today would be different from the days before? Certainly, it was a special date on the calendar, but that only sharpened the excruciating pain mercilessly. I had harbored the illusory hope of feeling slightly better, of being able to honor their memory in some meaningful way. Instead, I felt more depressed and desolate than ever.
I emerged from the shower and quickly changed clothes without fully drying my body. I entered my solitary bedroom, where a double bed that now felt desperately large for one person awaited me. Next to it was a small mahogany desk that had belonged to my grandfather.
I sat heavily and began drying my damp hair with a white towel. On the polished surface of the desk rested a thick black-covered notebook and an elegant fine-tipped pen. Without a moment's hesitation, I ceremoniously opened the notebook.