Margen
When my father died, the hardware store came to me. The accountant said the first thing was to take inventory, and the notebook was where it had always been: under the counter, in his cramped handwriting.
Number-six screws, four boxes. Wide-thread bulbs, eleven. Duct tape, six rolls. Everything added up, aisle by aisle, until the last page, where the handwriting grew slower:
«August afternoon with the door open, one». «Silence after pulling down the shutter, three». «Coffee at the counter with Andrés, few left».
I walked the shelves without knowing what I was looking for. In the storeroom there were only boxes and that dust that floats in the skylight beam, the kind that looks still and isn't.
I've reopened the shop. I sell screws, bulbs, duct tape. And every night, before switching off the lights, I write down on the last page whatever has come in without going through the till.