The Salt
Hours

— 1 —

The house smelled of salt even in January. Our mother said so every time she opened the living-room shutters, as if it were a virtue or a threat, and we, who were three and never agreed on anything, agreed at least on that: the smell never left.

I came back on a Tuesday in July, with a small suitcase and the absurd idea of staying only for a weekend. Ana was already there, barefoot, her hair held up with a pencil and a list of things to throw away stuck to the fridge.

“Lucía arrives on Friday,” she said without turning round. “She says she’s bringing a buyer.”

I sat on the kitchen step, the same one where as girls we peeled prawns and spat out cherry stones, and looked at the sea through the open door. It was still, flat, a blue that seemed unreal. I thought no one in their right mind would sell that. I also thought that we had never been entirely in our right minds.

That night, while Ana slept, I went up to the attic. I was looking for clean sheets and found a tin box with our names written by hand. Inside there were letters. None of them had been opened.