I finished the online course with a feeling of relief and heaviness at the same time. The Ávila gave a cold breeze that froze my underwear. As I could, I settled in front of the desk and took the first bite of the largest fish sandwich I had put together. I've been wanting to eat it like this for a while: warm bread, tartar sauce spilling over the edge, and that hake steak with a perfect crunch.

Everything was going well... until... a shiver ran down my spine. The bite was half swallowed. Something, I do not know if a tremor or a jerk from the center of my chest, made me stagger in the chair. I tried to talk, to ask for help. But my body ignored my orders.

A low, vibrant note, like an underwater echo, took hold of my ears. Then, the power went out. I fell, not on the floor.

He was submerged in an invisible current, in a darkness like oil, and in it, something spoke.

A familiar voice, trembling and at the same time firm, sounded like the output of a radio:

"GER-MAN not only solved problems... he also touched souls with his stories, his humor, and his unique way of being present."

That phrase was not new. I had already heard it, but I didn't know from whom. Only this time it was repeated as a lament that became more and more distorted. In my mind, that hammered incessantly, and I was still asleep.

The darkness was not complete. In the background, as if the abyss had windows, images appeared. Old, distorted photos. I, as a child, was holding a Philips radio, the one that José Antonio gave me when I was 10 years old. In the shower, falling in slow motion. Who took that picture? Writing short stories until the letters turned into worms and crawled everywhere.

The ocean of the strange was swallowing me up.

Then, he appeared.

I had my face, but older. Paler. As if the meat had been without light for too long. He was wearing my black jacket, and his green glasses shone with an almost radioactive glare. He was smiling, but not with joy, but with knowledge. He knew something I didn't.

He approached without walking. In his hand, he held a pen dripping black ink. Out of his mouth came a phrase with a metallic echo:

• The story is almost ready.

I tried to move, to scream. Nothing.

"Only you are missing—" he said, as he pointed the pen at my forehead.

The ink began to float in the air, drawing meaningless words: "CTRL+ALT+SOUL." I knew what they meant, even if I couldn't explain it. I felt a stronger pull; they wanted to dismember me into paragraphs and commas.

A sharp beep broke the moment.

Then, light.

Someone was shaking me. A neighbor. He told me that he had heard a knock and found me lying next to the desk, my eyes rolling.

• Did you fall asleep, German? - he said, in a worried voice.

I sat up with difficulty. My knees wouldn't give me. Everything was in its place. Especially the fish sandwich. But on the phone screen, a strange notification flashed:

“Published text”

I didn't remember writing anything.

I turned on the Acer, and the screen showed a single file, no title. I opened it. It was a story. One that I had never written before. Word for word, he described what he had just experienced. Even the neighbor, even the fish sandwich. Even:

"GER-MAN not only solved problems... he also touched souls with his stories, his humor, and his unique way of being present."

In the last line, written in red, something new:

"Thank you for letting me tell you."

I closed the laptop and I was like a goat sucking tamarind. That night, I didn't sleep. At dawn, I decided to publish the story without editing a single letter. Maybe it wasn't mine. Maybe I was just the channel. But since then, every time I turn off the light, I feel that the other me, the one with the green glasses floating in the shadows, is still writing.