MargenMy childhood home turned up on a property website and I went to see it, out of nostalgia, pretending to be a buyer.
A young couple opened the door. Friendly, a little shy. The house smelled the way it had back then: of wax and soup. I put it down to suggestion.
In the hallway I stopped in front of the framed photos. The beach at Comarruga, 1987. The birthday with the orange balloons. Grandma in her blue cardigan on the sofa that stood —I swear— in the same spot.
They were our photos. It was my family. In one of them I was six years old, missing my front teeth.
—Why are you selling? —I managed to ask.
The young woman looked at the young man with an old sadness, out of all proportion to her age, and answered me in my mother's voice:
—Because the girl never comes. And a house nobody comes to has to be let go.
I left without saying goodbye, trembling. In the street I looked at the sign: «FOR SALE», and underneath, in small print you can only read if you come very close: «to whoever returns».