Chapter One: A Strange New Beginning.

The house remained silent, the television was off, and on a lifeless table sat a cardboard box. A medium-gray blanket covered the sofa, half askew. It revealed part of the egg-yolk-colored upholstery in one corner. The wall no longer displayed any posters of leaping dolphins; that image lay destroyed inside the box along with other belongings of a woman who had died nearly six months earlier.

When Enric entered through the door, he placed the keys on the entryway cabinet, now bare of decorations and dust-collecting clutter. He flopped onto the sofa with disinterest. He looked toward the box, as dehumanized as the intense emotions held by the objects inside. Something compelled him to rise and relive those moments with Soraya.

Next to the torn poster was a teddy bear with a dart pin on its bow. And atop the bear's paw, a book; as small as a Calleja storybook. "Whoever wants to read it must dare to challenge me," read the cover. He hadn't noticed it before. The little book, royal green in color, fell to the floor when he picked up the bear, and the impact caused it to open. Something made Enric read it as he bent down to retrieve it.

Soraya's diary spoke of the most trivial things imaginable from the late young woman. But Enric noticed one of the last written pages. It spoke of two sisters, Patricia and Eva:

"I still remember clearly when Patricia and I went to the funeral home for Eva's burial. It was terribly hard to see her there, lifeless, and most contrary to her nature, unmade-up—she was so beautiful! Patricia always said I resembled Eva the most. Am I really that stubborn? Well, for being my twin, she didn't know me very well if she thought that."

The young man raised an eyebrow, his expression mixing surprise at learning Soraya had sisters and skepticism at seeing how his beloved portrayed herself more leniently than she truly was. He wondered why she spoke of both sisters in the past tense. She never spoke of her family and never mentioned any sisters, especially not a deceased one. After nearly two years living together, he felt disappointed at knowing so little about her.

"Madrid," he read. He had stopped to read a single word among all the others on the page. Why had he paused at that word? He studied the page carefully as if preparing for an exam on it. Soraya's parents hadn't attended her funeral, nor had her sister. Why was that?

Soraya had cost him dearly; her death had caused him to lose his job, and his obsession had driven away the few friends he had left.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Upon answering, he heard a familiar voice—it was Rubén, the guy who had introduced them.

"Still unemployed? The company I'm at needs screenwriters. Interested in coming to Madrid to work?"

Enric's mind resisted—an unfamiliar city after a lifetime in his own? But his mouth uttered a firm "yes"; Rubén promised it would only be an interview, but he had spoken so highly of him that he would likely be favored among the candidates. After the call, Enric felt as if someone else had spoken through him.

That self-destructive spiral he had created needed to end, and he convinced himself that a change of scenery to forget Soraya would do him good, trying to understand his immediate contradiction. He gathered Soraya's few belongings and placed them back in the box, threw the poster in the trash along with his anger, and headed to his room to pack.

Three weeks later, everything was ready. Enric had informed his landlord, and it was time to leave. The scant clothing in his closet barely filled one and a half suitcases; he finished packing with the dress he had bought Soraya the day she never returned, the teddy bear, and the young woman's diary. He looked at the suitcases—his life—so sad to summarize it in such few memories, in so little space. He stared blankly for a moment and lamented being an only child of parents who were also only children, with grandparents long deceased. He wondered what tied him to Barcelona—no family, no partner, no job. If only memories remained, he could always retrieve them from his mind, wherever he was.

As he opened the door, perhaps with a glimmer of childish hope, he wished for his life to improve in every way. He thought it might be an overly vague wish, but he didn't want a life as sad as it had become. He closed the door. Checked the mailbox. From the stairs, he looked at the threshold of what would no longer be his home. In silence, he bid a deep farewell along with a tear upon seeing the doormat Soraya had so despised that last time.

When he called the taxi, already on the street, he received another call from Rubén.

"I'll wait for you at Barajas airport. Just let me know when you board the plane from El Prat."

It took fifteen minutes from calling the taxi to arriving at the airport. In another half hour, he would board the plane, and forty-five minutes later, he would be in Madrid. Only an hour and a half separated his new life from the old one. It seemed a short time to cover the six hundred kilometers between airports. But something inside told him it was a tailor-made option, and his doubts completely faded.

From El Prat, he called his friend. Exceptionally, the air shuttle had no delays, and the plane arrived on time at Barajas. When the aircraft landed, two others were unloading passengers, and several more were boarding. Enric waited in the baggage claim area to collect his two suitcases.

In front of the baggage carousel, a chill ran down his spine as he spotted a large pink and purple suitcase with a daisy keychain hanging from the lock, bearing a name. A sudden curiosity overwhelmed him to read it, but Enric restrained himself. The carousel kept moving, and he followed the luggage with his eyes. A blonde, curly-haired girl picked it up. Her face was excessively familiar to Enric: Soraya. The girl must have felt watched because she looked up and locked eyes with Enric. He was frozen, drawing attention. The young woman, skeptical, resumed searching for her remaining luggage.