“He said, ‘Enough of wasting my life on nonsense!’
— and cut it off at the root.”

When María Elena arrived at the country house outside San Miguel de Allende on Saturday morning, the air was thick like honey.
Heavy. Still.

Everything was imbued with the July heat, the smell of bougainvillea, of damp earth…
and something more.

Something unsettling.
Metallic.

Maria Elena stopped in front of the gate.
She remained motionless.

Where yesterday its rose bushes stood — lush, alive, turning every morning towards the sun — now only irregular and sharp stumps remained.

The earth was disturbed.
Bare.

As if someone had ripped off his skin.

Her purse fell.

The bag of sweet bread from the neighborhood bakery tore open and the golden crusts rolled down the dusty path.

— What… is this?.. — he whispered.

I couldn’t feel my legs.

He left the house.

An old t-shirt.
A cigarette between his teeth.
And that expression that always foretold misfortune.

“You’ve finally arrived,” she said calmly, as if nothing had happened.
“I’ve decided to bring order to the chaos.”

Maria Elena didn’t understand.

Or perhaps he didn’t want to understand.

“Order?” Her voice trembled.
“Where are my roses?”

He released the smoke.
He shook the ash onto the ground.