He remembered his twelve years when he was taken for the first time to the cemetery of Chameta. They were crying for the unfriendly grandmother, but that wasn't the most important thing. What stuck was the warm breeze, the smell of dry land, and the look of a girl who, at just two years old, seemed to understand everything without saying anything. She was there with her family, saying goodbye to her grandfather, who had died of a heart attack.

While the adults mourned their grief, they, along with their respective cousins, played among the graves, ran over mausoleums, and jumped, unaware that they were treading on history and secrets. The connection is almost absurd, but real—a memory in the form of a flash that never left.

Both of them grew up far from Chameta. Coincidences of life, or the universal screenwriter with a dark sense of humor, led them to Caracas. Without knowing it, they were walking along the same avenues, suffering the same blackouts and cursing the same traffic. He became an engineer, she became an administrator.

He, a 50-year-old bachelor, began dating the woman's cousin at the insistence of his cousin Giovanni, who claimed that the girl had had her eye on him. And although the bonus was not exactly a poem, more like a crumpled flyer with discounts, the engineer decided to give it a try.

She, already in her forties, lived in his memories. Until her cousin announced that she was dating a wonderful man, a guy like few others. The cousin invited her to meet him. It was in a swimming pool, served with laughter, whiskey, and a lot of looks. And there he was, with his wavy hair and his padlocked beard covered with white strokes, his distracted gesture, and those legs that still, although somewhat slower, recalled the jumps of childhood.

They didn't say anything. They acknowledged each other in silence, as do those who never forget.

He was looking for her with his eyes, he wanted to talk to her, to tell her what he thought of her for years, that he dreamed of her laughter, that no woman seemed so clear in his memory. But she was running away, out of respect for her cousin, and out of fear. Afraid of spoiling the memory of that love that had germinated under the heat of Chameta.

Jealousy crept between his eyebrows when he saw her running away. She thought she was with someone. But no, she was just avoiding him, but she kept seeing him. When he tried to approach her definitively, she fled to the right like one who saw a ghost.

He broke up with the cousin. It wasn't love. It was a bad joke.

Time passed. They never saw each other again. She died of sadness, like cats that crawl into corners to let go, convinced that love was a misunderstanding. He died; he did it at the same time, his soul, tired of waiting, turned off the light.

Both had always asked to be cremated. His relatives complied. But for reasons that no one explained, his ashes were taken to the same place: Chameta. The village that was a cemetery or the cemetery that was a village, where the graves disappeared, and the dead, according to the inhabitants, were transformed into flowers, pastures, and beautiful landscapes.

Time passed, and no one remembered their names. There was only talk of the garden that was born when his ashes arrived, the one where the most beautiful flowers in the country grew. They say that the earth smelled like coffee and that the butterflies danced without melody.

One morning, a cow and a bull ran away from their owners. They went into the cemetery, attracted by the coolness of the grass. They ate without knowing that they were ruminating on stories, loves, goodbyes, and sighs.

And then, as dictated by natural law and the eternal cycle, they took a shit.

There are two warm fuck posts in the middle of the most beautiful garden in Chameta.

One turned around, with a faint mist of longing, and with her eyes, as when you get stepped on a callus, she said to the other:

• Finally, together again.