MargenHe had spent forty minutes in that waiting room with bone-coloured walls, leafing through magazines he already knew by heart. He hated that clinic, the smell of disinfectant, the music with no melody.
The receptionist checked her screen and pronounced the name in a tired voice.
"Martín Alcázar."
Four people stood up at once. Nobody sat back down. They all looked at one another, and in every face he recognised, with a shiver, his own eyebrows, his same way of furrowing his brow.
The father who had abandoned them all, each one in a different city, had just died. And now they knew each other.