This short story was written originally in Portuguese back in 2014. That same year it was translated into Spanish and it has been sitting in my drawer ever since. I found it today and decided to give it a new look, revisiting the text and its emotional background, translating it this time to English. The last sentence from the original Portuguese and first version in Spanish was left out, as it no longer reflects my feelings. Hope you enjoy!
The Last Letter
Pedro Cuervo-Negro sat at his desk. He was tired and dejected. He did not want to fight further over something that could not be won in combat. He needed to feel wanted, desired. But he was not. Everything seemed to be a mere illusion. And of illusions, the fibres with which all the problems of the world are made of, he had had enough.
He took a single sheet of paper – imported directly from the Eastern countries, probably Chinese – and sought with his eyes for the wooden box that held its pen, nib, and ink, religiously wrapped in a delicate light blue cashmere cloth.
Flattening out the paper with a wooden ruler, he removed the glass from the table lamp that had illuminated him so many sleepless nights; grabbing his flint lighter he lit the faint oily light.
The ritual to begin writing was almost always the same, with little variations, even when his mood was quite altered. It was like a spell that made him go back to being himself. And then, with the ink letters flowing on the paper, he himself was everything.