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feeling of emptiness and loneliness has filled the house now. Some blinds drawn, some blinds ajar. Full of light outside, gloom and darkness inside. Shyly, the sun’s rays filtered through the clouds, casting a vanishing shadow over the mahogany furniture, over her sorrowful soul, over her life. Some shutters drawn, some shutters ajar; the swishing of the opaque curtains, the log crackling on the fire. Drops of water pattering on the roof. Outside, some leaves rustle in the breeze. The entire house is silent except for a clock chiming in the room. Frances leans against the old oak door. The creaking of rusty hinges and the screeching of bolts startle her. The turning of the lock. Clenched are her fists. Bent is her head. Bitter tears are rolling down her face. The sounds of silence. (Who has taken life away?) The drumming of little, pearly raindrops, the squeaking of an old rocking chair made her feel more deeply the sluggish calmness of her house. (Who has been sitting there?)Flopping into the velvet grey armchair, once more, she feels the cold in her, making her shiver. One after another the sounds die out, only silence widespreads unfolding her.As the night sinks, consciousness sinks deeper: one must fight against dreadful, intensely anguishing thoughts. Everybody has left the house. It seems as if the last one has thrown every sound into a bag and has carried them all away. Away with her hopes, away with her feelings, away with her soul. What is life then? Frances allows her to rest and falls asleep. (Some people says she is dead.) The ticking of the clock. At first it is only a murmur, (the purring of the kitten?) the murmur becomes a melancholy voice, (the whistling of the kettle?) the voice would sing its song. Gently the melody would break her inner silence.Out of the blue her eyes are wide open. A dog barks somewhere. The birds raise their voices to the resplendent sky. The singing of the wind. Here she is. She would not die lying down. Hardly has she breathed now. (She could have wept. but she did not.)Listening to the sounds, it is as if someone has shot an arrow into the air and it has not fallen to earth. Such an ecstasy! She feels intense gratitude. In amazement, she tiptoes to the window, hooking the window back, the brightness of the day makes her blink. The sunlight fills the room with a yellow haze. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world. For a moment, it seems that it has slipped among her fingers. Music. Life. Hope. The street full of cars, the house, and her heart full of hope is no longer a dirty grey. (One should know how to hold the scene and let nobody come in and spoil it). Frances smiles nonchalantly. Through the open window the voice of life is coming in again. Her heart sinks a bit. Her heart. Still alive. She is wide-awake again. by Inés García Botana
