Chương 39: Chapter 38: The Jet-Black Stain

Although sleep did not come, in the solitude of the night —in that silence which was more a backdrop for others' breathing than a true absence of noise— her mind led her straight to where it always hurt. To her head. To that place where the sharp stinging made its mark, a dull and persistent hammering that refused to yield. Questions floated in her mind weightlessly, like dry leaves carried by an invisible current. And despite the pain, she let them flow. She let them be. The questions, the doubts, the voids.

Some answers she already knew her previous life was taking shape among them with increasingly clear strokes. The philologist. The one who had a friend named Román, that dark-skinned boy with a wide smile who complained about the Krebs cycle. He was the one who studied diligently to go to Russia, to immerse himself in the dusty archives of St. Petersburg, to drink from the fountain of the linguists who had built the foundations of his thought. But other questions had no answer.

They were bottomless abysses, black holes in the map of her identity. Who was she now? What was she? Why did she inhabit this body? What had really happened in that cabin? And what did all those names —Scargoth, Bjorn, the man with the scar— mean on the board of a conspiracy she couldn't yet see? The shapeless questioning began to dissolve after a few hours. The headache, that constant companion, gradually subsided.

Her breathing became deeper, slower, and little by little, almost without realizing it, she synchronized with the breathing of the others. That chorus of inhalations and exhalations filling the dormitory rocked her, lulling her, until the longed-for sleep —the end of the day— finally arrived to claim her. Then she dreamed, and the dream painted itself before her eyes with a sharpness that ached. It was an apartment, her apartment, she knew it.

Its windows looked directly onto a beach, and through the glass, she saw the waves moving with the wind, an infinite dance of foam and blue that was hypnotizing. To one side, a bed with white, rumpled sheets. On the other, a glass desk, identical to those in other dreams, but now bathed in the sunlight streaming in. She walked. Her bare feet moved over the light wood floor, feeling the morning warmth on her soles.

She went to the living room, a wide and luminous space dominated by an enormous gray sofa, so plush it looked like a cloud. She sat down. Upon the coffee table, her laptop rested open, the screen illuminated with a text in English.

"The Role of Philosophy in Social Change" — she read the title. Then, an idea pierced her head with the force of a lightning bolt. It wasn't her own thought, not exactly. It was as if the text itself had come to life and installed itself in her mind with crystalline clarity: Philosophy transforms society by acting as an essential democratic tool that fosters critical thinking, allowing citizens to question prejudices and unjust traditions. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen.

Report the violation. The words resonated in her skull like a bell toll, like a truth both ancient and new, like an echo of everything she had been and perhaps still was. In the midst of that thought, a jet-black stain climbed onto her laptop keyboard. A bundle of fur as black as night moved with feline grace and sat right on the keys, interposing itself between her and the text. The man smiled. His fingers, without a conscious order, sank into that soft, deep fur.

He stroked the animal's head, feeling how it responded by pushing against his hand, seeking more affection. He saw it clearly then: a beautiful Angora cat, with eyes yellow like topaz and shiny black fur. He took it in his arms. He brought it straight to his chest as he reclined on the sofa, sinking into the plush gray surface. The cat settled on him, a warm and comforting weight, and began to purr.

The vibration filled his chest with bliss, a deep, physical, real bliss that relaxed every muscle in his body, dissolving every accumulated tension. Without questioning it, without thinking, without any reason mediating, three words escaped his lips in a whisper thick with sweetness: —I love you, Rulito. The cat purred louder, as if it understood, as if it responded. The man, in that dream, in that apartment facing the sea, was completely happy.

But as her body relaxed, as the bliss wrapped around her like a blanket, the sounds of the purring began to mix with something else. A distant tinkling at first, barely perceptible, a metallic echo floating from the other side of consciousness. It drew closer little by little, its sound becoming clearer, more insistent, until the purring vanished completely, replaced by that relentless tolling. Selena opened her eyes. The thatched beam ceiling of the communal dormitory loomed over her.

The grayish light of dawn filtered through the high windows. And there, in the center of the room, stood Anya with her bronze bell, calling them to a new day. Selena's heart felt warm. A warmth she didn't quite remember, an ember of the dream's bliss that still burned in her chest. Her smile was inescapable, a curve on her lips she couldn't control, and didn't want to. The shadow, the jet-black stain, had left her mind. But the name had not. The name remained, seared into some deep place. Rulito.

Without further ado, the morning routine went on like any other day. The cold showers in the courtyard, the freezing water clearing the last vestiges of sleep. Anya giving out tasks in her practical, maternal voice. The steaming porridge in the dining hall, the same taste of cooked grain and salt. But Selena, while she ate, while she listened to the conversations of the other women, was already focused on an idea. An idea she had to follow. Something the dream had left her as a gift, like a key. Philosophy.

In this world, the only divergent philosophy, the only one that questioned the established order, the only one that dared to think differently, was in that cave full of heretics. That heresy resonated deeply with her heart, with that echo of the man from Earth who still inhabited her. The acolyte's words returned to her mind with clarity:"The gods are mirrors carved by those who fear their reflection." That was the philosophy that transformed societies. The one that fostered critical thinking.

The one that allowed for the questioning of unjust traditions. Her consciousness —the one that had been a philologist, the one that had studied to change the world with ideas, the one that had loved a cat named Rulito in another life— knew she could not ignore that call. She finished her porridge. She stood up from the table. She looked through the window toward the outside, toward that world that stretched beyond the walls of the shelter, full of dangers and questions and forbidden philosophies.

And she knew, with a certainty that needed no words, that she would return to that cave. That she needed to hear more. That she needed to understand.