For a warm, magical, but brief moment, I thought I heard the sound of the bells down there, in the valley. They brought back all your memories, one by one. I could feel you somewhere in the air that surrounded the emptiness of the road.

Then I saw it again. You know… It has aged. I have descended to the valley once more. I could barely find the old path that we walked together on so many bright spring mornings.

The old wooden bridge seems to have recognized my footsteps and with languid creaks, it asked me about you again. The stream seems tired. The rocks no longer compete for the touch of its cool waters. Reluctantly, it spills its small flow, barely soaking a channel that nowadays only serves as a refuge for a few frogs and some kind of birds searching for small worms.

Like in the past, the wind wanted to play with your hair. Naively, it whispered your name in the branches of the poplars. Not hearing your laughter, it passed by my side. Bewildered, calling for you, it rode off on horseback.

Everyone has noticed your absence. Everyone misses you. Maybe that’s what the bells were shouting this morning, even if it was only in my imagination.

No, the time hasn’t passed in vain for the valley. But, anyway, I am no longer that young man who went down to it with you so many times.

I am tired. I have a feeling that I will be reunited with you this autumn.

We will cross the old wooden bridge again, on the back of the wind, next spring.

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Por José Manuel Lasanta Besada

Licenciado en Ciencias de la Información, Periodismo, que se creyó Don Quijote, chocó con los molinos a las primeras de cambio, se levantó, y aquí sigue.

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