A dim light in the room. Rosalía, sitting in a chair next to the bed, is holding her father Salvador's hand. Go to sleep, you'll be tired, you've been sitting here all day. Leave me alone, Mother, I know what I'm doing to myself, I have a feeling. My daughter, you're stubborn, just like your father, really, like father, like son. Well, do whatever you damn well please. I'm exhausted. You know what Dr. Almagro said, that no matter how much medicine you give, it can last days, even weeks . Yes, go to sleep now.

The whole room smelled of that handkerchief, soaked in violet perfume, which Salvador held to his nose to combat his anxiety. In the silence of the night, Salvador gently squeezed Rosalía's hand. She would spend days wondering if it was real or a dream. I assure you, it happened. A way of saying goodbye. And with a soft exhalation, she died.