Prologue: from everything to nothing in a name.

The stale air was hard to breathe. Neck muscles were tense. Neither Enric nor Soraya dared to hurl more insults. Neither remembered the origin of the argument, but the look on each other's face foretold nothing good.

The curtains fluttered slightly behind him. The leaves visible through the window barely moved. A cold midday sun pierced the glass and burned Soraya's retinas as it fell on the three-seater sofa the color of egg yolk. On the chaise longue, her favorite poster displayed on its glossy surface the silhouette of Enric intermingled with the image of a dolphin leaping in the sea.

The situation was about to explode and anything was possible. Soraya might break one of her cheap vases. Enric might choose to withdraw and sit on the yellow sofa to watch his peculiar Catalan channel surfing that irritated her so much—a Madrilenian who didn't understand the language. Maybe that bitter silence was just a pause and the argument would gain strength again. But both waited for a reaction from the other, and the silence, as unbearable as the screech of ungreased hinges, made her react.

Soraya grabbed the car keys from the sideboard table and tucked in the blonde curls escaping from her ponytail. Her blue eyes, furious, stared at Enric, who still looked upset. She opened the door forcefully and left. The crash she caused when slamming it made her instantly regret the impulsiveness of the act. Her anger grew, now compounded by her inability to control her own impulses.

She got in the car and started it. Adrenaline made her flee—from Enric, from the argument, from her own rage, and even from herself for letting the dispute spiral out of control.

She didn't know how long she'd been driving—ten, twelve, fifteen minutes? Or maybe just seconds? Perhaps anger made time race on her grass-green wristwatch that Enric had given her the week before. However much time had passed didn't matter; her blood had been boiling since she left the house, and she drove aimlessly through the roads of Barcelona until she got lost. Her conscience told her to stop, but the anguish burning in her heart was stronger.

The typical January temperature didn't allow the water from days ago to evaporate in the middle of March. The slippery road hindered Soraya's thoughts. As she moved away from sea level, the temperature dropped despite the heat coursing through her body, making her press the pedal harder on increasingly steep slopes.

Suddenly, a sharp curve.

Beyond it, a landslide blocking the way.

The brake didn't respond. Soraya turned the wheel, but it was too late. The rugged slope of the hill seemed like a simple downhill path on any road.

Her whole life flashed before her eyes—her childhood, her teenage years, when she met Enric at an informal gathering, when he finally asked her to be his girlfriend in front of all their mutual friends. Oh God, Enric! She now remembered the argument and the spark that lit the fuse. It was her fault because the night before she hadn't closed the window, and a pigeon had entered the house during the morning while they were both working.

What could she do about it? Poor Enric, she had to apologize and now she couldn't... Or maybe she could?

Soraya found herself with a full flash in her face. The false ceiling was pristine white. And she could make out several people dressed in spruce-green medical uniforms. "Doctor, what happened?" she asked again and again without getting an answer. The medical staff completely ignored her. They spoke among themselves in Catalan using terms she didn't understand. Two more people entered the room, spoke with them, and took them away, leaving her alone in the inhospitable room.

She thought of Enric—what would he think? Would he miss her? Or would he just accuse her of recklessness between sobs? Their strong personalities had often led to arguments and ended in anger. But Enric's temperament was like lemon juice—once you drink it, the acidity quickly fades, leaving only the fresh citrus taste. Soraya's temperament was more like Mexican chili or Japanese wasabi—a spicy aftertaste that didn't fade so easily.

Barely five minutes had passed when Soraya felt she'd waited an eternity for news. She had a mask covering her airways that didn't seem uncomfortable; it even helped her breathe.

Soraya couldn't stop thinking about her beloved Enric and how much she loved him—just as he entered the room. She called out to him, but he ignored her too. Was it a plot to make her apologize? No, Soraya immediately knew that was too far-fetched for someone as sensible as Enric.

But something clouded her mind, something that made her lose her grip on reality—if she still had it. Suddenly, she saw herself lying in a bed, a bed with white sheets and some letters piled on either side of her body, as if showing a blurry name to Soraya's clear vision.

A few people in hospital uniforms pushed Enric aside until they reached the body lying in the bed.

He covered his mouth with his right hand, his trembling fingers touching his right cheek. With his left arm under the opposite elbow, he looked weak and helpless; his face resembled that of a crying child. Enric brought both hands to his ears and covered them as his face twisted bitterly in pain.

Enric moved his lips, naming his beloved without uttering a sound.

Soraya approached him, tried to listen, but heard nothing. Then she looked at the monitor beside her body. The device showed a bright green line with a pause moving from left to right, and she understood her heart was no longer beating.

Soraya saw herself lying lifeless in the bed, surrounded by doctors and other hospital staff, with Enric crying bitterly, covering his ears from a beep she could now easily imagine.

She thought of all those people who talk about the blinding light they claim to see when life leaves them, and for that reason she searched for it. She didn't find it, despite being sure she had died.