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El Pasillo Infinito|Relato de Ficción ESP-ENG
Este es un texto original escrito en español y versionado al inglés en Google Translation. Imagen generada en Gemini IA.
La primera vez que Javier vio a su madre caminar hacia la puerta y no regresar, tenía seis años. No ocurrió en la vida real, sino en la televisión. En la pantalla, un niño despedía a su madre, que se alejaba por un pasillo que se extendía sin término. Sonó una música, y la imagen se desvaneció.
A la mañana siguiente, su madre salió. Sólo iba al supermercado, pero Javier ya no diferenciaba. Cuando la puerta se cerró, el pasillo de su casa se estiró en su mente, igual que en el anime, y él permaneció en el umbral de su habitación, aguardando una música que no llegaba.
A los siete años, descubrió que podía esquivar las despedidas si no miraba. Si su madre se marchaba, él apretaba los párpados y se cubría los oídos. Pero el silencio pesaba más, porque en el silencio siempre terminaba escuchando, muy tenue, esa melodía que había resonado aquella vez.
A los ocho, su padre se sentó con él en el sofá.
_ Los dibujos son inventados, hijo. Mamá siempre regresa.
Y era verdad, siempre volvía. Pero Javier ya sabía que las cosas podían coexistir y ausentarse a la vez. Su madre estaba allí, cocinando la cena, y sin embargo él la observaba alejarse por aquel pasillo, empequeñecerse, reducirse a un punto y después desvanecerse.
A los nueve, dejó de ver anime. Pero los animes lo acechaban a él. Asomaban en los bordes de su campo visual, en los reflejos de las ventanas, en la pantalla del ordenador apagado. Personajes con ojos desmesurados lo espiaban desde la negrura.
A los diez, su madre tuvo que viajar por trabajo. Una semana completa. Javier no durmió. Cada noche se instalaba en el pasillo, frente a la entrada, y computaba los segundos. A veces, cuando el sueño lo rendía, soñaba que el corredor se alargaba y él caminaba sin alcanzar destino, mientras una música flotaba a lo lejos.
A los once, comenzó a dibujar. Pero no plasmaba lo que observaba, sino lo que le aterraba. Pasillos que se prolongaban, puertas que desembocaban en el vacío, madres que se despedían sonriendo mientras sus cuerpos se tornaban translúcidos. Su profesora de arte le dijo:
_ Posees talento.
Su padre solicitó ayuda profesional.
A los doce, en la consulta, la terapeuta le exhibió un dibujo. No le pertenecía. Provenía de otro niño. Un pasillo, una puerta abierta, una silueta al fondo.
_ ¿Qué percibes aquí, Javier?
Javier contempló el dibujo y notó que el piso se desplazaba. Porque no se trataba de un pasillo cualquiera. Era su pasillo. El de su hogar. El de su mente. El que llevaba siete años transitando sin alcanzar el término.
Inquirió con voz tenue:
_ ¿Quién lo ejecutó?
_ Un niño que también temía que su madre partiera. Lo trazó cuando poseía tu edad. Hoy trabaja como ilustrador. Reside solo, en otro país. De vez en cuando contacta a su madre por videollamada.
Javier examinó el dibujo. Después elevó la mirada.
_ ¿Ese niño consiguió alcanzar el final del pasillo?
La terapeuta esbozó una sonrisa.
_ No. Pero aprendió a recorrerlo sin pavor. Y descubrió que al fondo no aguarda una despedida. Aguarda otra puerta. Y tras ella, siempre, su madre espera.
Javier permaneció en silencio. Por primera vez en siete años, no distinguió la música.
Sólo percibió, a lo lejos, el ruido de la puerta de calle al abrirse. Y después, los pasos de su madre, aproximándose.
This is an original text written in Spanish and translated into English using Google Translate. Image generated in Gemini IA.
The Infinite Corridor | Fiction Story (Spanish-English)
The first time Javier saw his mother walk toward the door and not return, he was six years old. It didn't happen in real life, but on television. On the screen, a boy waved goodbye to his mother as she walked away down a seemingly endless hallway. Music played, and the image faded.
The next morning, his mother left. She was just going to the supermarket, but Javier couldn't tell the difference anymore. When the door closed, the hallway of his house stretched out in his mind, just like in anime, and he stood in the doorway of his room, waiting for music that never came.
At seven, he discovered he could avoid goodbyes if he didn't look. If his mother left, he would squeeze his eyelids shut and cover his ears. But the silence weighed more heavily, because in the silence he always ended up hearing, very faintly, that melody that had resonated that time.
At eight, his father sat with him on the sofa.
"Cartoons are made up, son. Mom always comes back."
And it was true, she always came back. But Javier already knew that things could coexist and be absent at the same time. His mother was there, cooking dinner, and yet he watched her walk down that hallway, shrink, shrink to a point, and then vanish.
At nine, he stopped watching anime. But anime haunted him. They appeared at the edges of his field of vision, in the reflections of the windows, on the screen of the turned-off computer. Figures with enormous eyes spied on him from the darkness.
When he was ten, his mother had to travel for work. A whole week. Javier didn't sleep. Every night he would settle in the hallway, facing the entrance, and count the seconds. Sometimes, when sleep finally overtook him, he dreamed that the corridor stretched out and he walked aimlessly, while music floated in the distance.
At eleven, he began to draw. But he didn't depict what he saw, but rather what terrified him. Hallways that seemed to extend, doors that opened into nothingness, mothers who waved goodbye with smiles as their bodies became translucent. His art teacher told him:
"You have talent."
His father sought professional help.
At twelve, in therapy, the therapist showed him a drawing. It wasn't his. It came from another child. A hallway, an open door, a silhouette at the end.
"What do you perceive here, Javier?"
Javier gazed at the drawing and noticed that the floor seemed to shift. Because this wasn't just any hallway. It was his hallway. The one in his home. The one in his mind. The one he had been traversing for seven years without ever reaching the end.
He inquired in a soft voice:
"Who drew it?"
"A child who also feared his mother would leave. He drew it when he was your age. Today he works as an illustrator. He lives alone in another country. He occasionally contacts his mother via video call."
Javier examined the drawing. Then he looked up.
"Did that child manage to reach the end of the hallway?"
The therapist smiled.
"No. But he learned to walk it without fear. And he discovered that at the end, a goodbye doesn't await. Another door awaits. And behind it, always, his mother waits."
Javier remained silent. For the first time in seven years, he couldn't distinguish the music.
He only perceived, in the distance, the sound of the front door opening. And then, his mother's footsteps approaching.

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3 commentsIf you like English literature, your mind will be blowed by this: [Literature] Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol 5/41
Amazing! Thank you!
!ALIVE !INDEED !HOPE