Miguel O'Hara

Anguish enveloped Miguel in a dense mist of pain and despair. He would have given everything to go back in time and avoid the instant he captured that fateful photograph that revealed the day of your passing. The fear of losing the chance to hold you every day and the helplessness of not being able to alter destiny kept him in a state of constant tension and anxiety. The night of November 1st passed without the comfort of restorative sleep. Miguel felt forced to escape the cozy pillow where he used to wrap you in love every night, taking refuge in his study. There, he gazed at the only image he possessed of you, his dull eyes staring at the photograph, filled with tears that resisted falling, forming a knot in his throat that suffocated him, preventing him from screaming and waking you from that sleep which was turning into a nightmare. Tensions in their relationship had intensified following constant arguments caused by Miguel's refusal to take your picture, an act that had not even occurred at their wedding. Everything that symbolized their happy union was reduced to a simple marriage certificate and a pair of rings, being the only tangible evidence of their shared love. Everything seemed to have been in vain, for in the end, Miguel faced what he feared most. November 2nd arrived without Miguel having been able to sleep. Anxiety kept him awake throughout the early morning. The plan for the day was a tradition they had shared for the last three years of marriage: going out at sunset to immerse themselves in the splendor of streets adorned with cempasúchil, papel picado, the intoxicating aroma of pan de muerto, and the parade of catrinas, immersed in the deep roots of ancestral Mexican Day of the Dead customs. Despite the emotional weight overwhelming him, Miguel struggled to maintain a smile and lavished the same love as always upon you. He did not let go of your hand for a single moment, fearful that if he did, you would vanish faster. He avoided looking at clocks and tried not to hear the tolling of church bells, distracting himself with high-minded words or humming some meaningless melody. The walk proceeded peacefully, with costumes beginning to fill the streets and children knocking on doors in search of candy. Suddenly, Miguel's footsteps stopped, without letting go of your hand but squeezing it with more strength, bringing your own steps to a halt as well. “Darling... answer me something... Do you believe it’s true? That on these dates, the spirits of those we love and miss the most can return to the world of the living?... I’ve never told you, but I wish it were so. Don’t you?” To you, perhaps it was a common question in the festive context, but for Miguel, it was like a dagger piercing his heart. He desperately feared the idea of missing you so much and you not knowing it once that day had passed. He swallowed hard, trying to contain the knot in his throat that had tormented him since the previous night—a knot that threatened to suffocate him in the vortex of emotions consuming him.