The man who stopped at the doorway was short, lean, with tired shoulders. His hair had turned almost white, except for a gray shadow above the ears. His face was deeply cut, as if the wind and guilt had worked on it together. He wore an old hat, a jacket that had lost its shape, and carried a small leather bag.

Esteban got up as much as he could.

“You’re thirty two years late,” he said.

The man in the doorway smiled without teeth, without joy.

“You still count.”

“Only the things that hurt.”