The sound of the metal gate rising was too loud. When it stopped, the silence that followed felt heavier than the escape itself.
I stood still, feeling like my body was lagging behind the rest of the world. My hands were still shaking.
The garage smelled of old oil and hot metal. Some cars were covered with gray cloths, as if someone had given up on them halfway through. Others were open, dismantled, exposed in an unsettling way.
One car hung suspended in the air on a lift, its wheels dangling, vulnerable in a strange, unsettling way.
I looked around without really knowing what I was looking for.
When I lifted my face, Vicente wasn't looking at the garage… he was looking at me. His gaze wasn't curious or demanding. It was attentive, like someone checking if something was out of place.
I tried to straighten my shoulders, pretend everything was normal.It didn't work.The trembling crept up my arm and gave me away.
Vicente frowned for a second, tilted his head, and spoke.
— Come.
It wasn't an invitation. It was guidance.
He walked past me, and I followed, my heart still beating out of rhythm. The hallway in the back was narrow, lit by a weak bulb that flickered faintly. The noise of the garage faded behind us, muffled, as if someone had closed a door inside me too.
The space at the end of the hallway was small. An improvised room that blended into a simple kitchen. A worn-out couch against the wall, an old television turned off, a table with two mismatched chairs. Nothing looked planned. Just necessary.
Vicente went straight to the fridge. He opened it, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to me.
— Drink.
I obeyed without thinking. The water was cold and slid down my throat like a welcome shock. My hands still trembled around the bottle.
He pulled out a chair and pushed it toward me.
— Sit.
I sat. My body gave in all at once, as if it had been holding everything together until then out of sheer stubbornness.
Vicente stayed standing, leaning against the sink, arms crossed, keeping his distance. He didn't invade. Didn't ask anything. He just stayed there, present, like a quiet wall between me and the rest of the world.
After a few seconds, he spoke, his voice low.
— It's over.
He moved away from the sink and leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed again.
— It's quiet here — he said. — No one comes in without me knowing. You can relax.
The word relax felt strange inside me. My body was still on alert, as if it hadn't caught up with what had just happened.
— What was that out there? — I asked. — What kind of people are those who follow you around?
He looked away for a second, as if the question had come too soon.
— People who don't know when to stop.
— And you didn't call the police?
He laughed. It wasn't mocking or amused. It was brief. Almost reflexive.
— I'm serious — I said, feeling the discomfort grow.
Vicente shook his head slowly.
— I know — he replied. — But there's no need. I handle my own problems. It's not something you need to worry about.
The way he said my problems made the line very clear.And I wasn't on the other side of it.
I looked around again. The worn couch, the small kitchen, the old television.
— You live here?
— I do.
— And you work at the garage?
— I do — he answered simply, as if there was nothing else to add.
I finished the water and handed him the bottle. He took it, threw it away, and ran a quick hand over his forehead, like someone scolding himself internally.
— It wasn't a good idea to take you out that late at night — he said. — I'll take you home.
My stomach tightened.
— I don't want to go back yet — I said. — Actually… I got scared… the way I found my father. I felt like I was there against his will.
He stayed silent for a longer moment.
— He's been like that for a while — he said finally. — Drinking constantly. It's not because of you.
He took a deep breath.
— Your being there will be good for Rosa. She's been holding everything together on her own for too long.
I leaned back in the chair, feeling a kind of exhaustion that wasn't physical.
— And for me? — I asked quietly.
He looked at me then, truly.
Not like someone judging… but like someone weighing the cost of what he was about to say.
— For you… — he began, then stopped. — It'll be hard at first. But it's not a bad place to stay.
He grabbed the keys and made a short gesture with his head.
— Let's go.
The motorcycle cut through the streets with less urgency now. It wasn't escape. Just movement. I held onto his waist with less force, feeling the cold wind hit my face.
The city passed dark around us… spaced-out lights… tired streetlamps.
When he stopped in front of the building, he turned off the engine and got off first. He removed his helmet and waited while I removed mine. He didn't touch me or rush me.
— You're home.
— Thank you — I said, holding the helmet a second longer than necessary. — For everything.
He gave a barely noticeable nod.
— Get some rest.
I took two steps toward the door, then stopped.
— Vicente.
He looked at me.
— Don't you want to know why I left my mother's house?
He took a moment to answer.
— If you left — he said finally — it was because you thought it was necessary.
I swallowed.
— Sometimes we leave because we can't take it anymore.
— That's necessary too.
The answer came without emotion.It came with certainty.
— I'm glad I found you.
The words slipped out before I could decide if I should say them.
He didn't smile. But something in his face softened, just a little.
— I know.
And that was all.
I went inside without looking back this time—not out of fear… but because I knew he would still be there when the door closed.