Page 190 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
This was real.
A strange, overwhelming mix of emotions surged through me—relief, disbelief, something dangerously close to joy.
“I’m glad you can see again,” he said.
Ramiro lifted one hand, giving a small, almost playful wave in front of me—subtle, but deliberate. Testing me.
Testingit.
My gaze followed the movement instinctively, tracking the arc of his fingers through the air.
The motion was simple, but the fact that I couldseeit—clearly, effortlessly—sent a strange, almost disorienting thrill through me.
“I can,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.
I nodded, still trying to anchor myself in this new reality, then slowly swung my legs over the side of the bed.
My feet touched the floor, cool and solid beneath me.
Grounding.
I turned fully toward him.
Everything felt... sharper now. Not just visually, but mentally. Like the world had edges again.
“Thank you, Ramiro,” I said, meaning it. My voice steadied slightly. “Where is Rafael?”
The shift in him was immediate.
It was so subtle I might have missed it if I couldn’t see now—but it was there.
His smile dimmed, the warmth in his expression cooling into something more controlled.
“He went to Zara’s grave,” Ramiro said after a brief pause. “To talk.”
My brows drew together. “To talk?”
He inclined his head slightly, as if weighing how much to say. “He does that when the nightmares hit him... harder than usual. When they don’t let him sleep.”
I stared at him, trying to make sense of it. “So let me get this straight—he sits in front of her grave and talks to... what? Empty air?”
“If you want to put it that way,” Ramiro replied evenly. “Yes.”
There was no mockery in his tone. No judgment. Just quiet acceptance.
“But he doesn’t see it as empty,” he continued. “He believes that even though her body is buried, she can still hear him.”
I let out a short breath, something between disbelief and unease. My fingers curled slightly at my sides.
“That sounds...” I hesitated, searching for the right word. “Unhealthy.”
“It might be,” Ramiro said without defensiveness. “But it’s the only thing that gives him any kind of relief.”
I studied his face, watching the way his jaw tightened just slightly, the way his gaze shifted—not avoiding mine, but not fully holding it either.
“We tried everything after Zara died,” he added, his voice quieter now, but firm. “Therapists. Psychologists. Grief counselors. Even a renowned psychiatrist who specializes in trauma. Nothing worked.”
There was weight behind the words—like something still unresolved, still bleeding under time.
