Exactly twelve years had passed since the accident. Since that date that never happened.
14ymedio, Milton Chanes, Berlin, 26 July 2025
It was raining.
Again.
Every November 12, the sky seemed to remember it for him.
Twelve full years had passed since the accident. Since that date that never happened. Since Ana fell — absurdly, inevitably — beneath the hood of an old ’54 Bel Air.
A silly accident, they said. Just another coincidence amid the chaos.
But he knew it wasn’t.
Since then, he had lived among hypotheses, stopwatches, and regrets.
Twelve years of silent research, of sleepless nights, of formulas scribbled in margins and wrinkled time maps.
He had lost everything: jobs, health, youth.
He had aged without noticing. Or perhaps he had.
He had given up his time… in exchange for time itself.
Now he only wanted to get close.
Brush against the moment.
Be there one second earlier, with the exact gesture.
Change everything without altering a thing.
A whisper, a warning—then vanish.
The leap through time was almost painless. Like closing your eyes in a blink that lasted just a bit too long.
And then, he was there.
It was raining.
More than he himself remembered.
That afternoon at the café, he had barely noticed the raindrops sliding down the fogged windows.
But now, standing in the middle of the street, the rain was something else entirely: a dense, living presence that soaked him in the past.
On the avenue, the cars raised a fine gray spray that hovered like low mist, diffusing lights, blurring silhouettes.
The drops drummed against the awnings like impatient fingers.
The asphalt gleamed like wet skin, streaked with trembling reflections of streetlamps and traffic lights.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
And yet, everything was different.
Time hadn’t gone backward—it had closed in around him.
The pavement shone like a broken mirror.
The same puddle at the corner.
The same bare trees.
The whole city seemed suspended, held in the breath before something repeated itself.
And then he heard it.
In the distance, the familiar roar: the ’54 Bel Air, seafoam green, its white roof weathered with rust.
It moved with the proud clumsiness of old giants. The engine wheezed, as if it knew the gearbox was about to jam again.
It was Usnavy driving, José Ramón’s son, with that kind of patience you only have for a car you’ve inherited and loved.
Sometimes the gear would stick in third. And then came the ritual: stopping abruptly, stepping out, lifting the hood, reaching in to find the stiff lever beneath the steering column, and forcing it until it gave way.
It could’ve happened any day.
But that day was the worst.
And then he saw her.
Ana.
She was walking quickly.
A firm, almost resolute step—like someone who doesn’t want to be late for something important.
She looked stunning. Radiant.
Her dark coat hugged her figure, her hair loose and drenched by the rain, her lips painted a soft red that stood out against the pale afternoon.
And something more.
Heels.
Heels on a rainy day.
He understood instantly.
He knew.
Ana had chosen to dress elegantly that afternoon because she sensed something special was about to happen.
They had shared months of uninterrupted love, of tender gestures, of words heavy with promises.
Perhaps she felt that he—his younger self—was going to propose to her that day.
That’s why the dress.
That’s why the heels, despite the overcast sky and the treacherous pavement.
His heart trembled.
He only had to warn her. Nothing more.
One second before disaster.
A shout—and time, for once, would yield.
“Ana!” he cried.
And it was his voice that unleashed everything.
She stopped abruptly, right at the edge of the curb.
She turned her head, confused.
She saw him. But not the man she was expecting.
She saw someone else.
The same man… but with years etched on his face, a grown beard, eyes emptied by countless sleepless nights, a body bent by time—and by all that time had taken from him.
She was frightened.
Her heel slipped.
The movement was clumsy, slight—but enough.
She stumbled into the street.
And in that exact instant, the Bel Air lurched to a halt, tilting slightly to the right.
The impact was sharp.
The chrome bumper struck her at the temple.
Ana fell.
Twelve seconds.
It all happened in twelve seconds.
He ran to her, this time without shouting.
He knelt in the rain, held her gently.
There was no blood—only the same silence as back then.
His hands trembled.
He had come back to save her.
And it was his shout, his aged face, his unexpected presence that had startled her.
It was because of him.
Again.
The Bel Air was still there, idling like a wounded animal.
The engine continued to hum beneath the hood.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
He said it as if she could hear.
As if time—capricious and cruel—could understand.
Because in the end, love may defy the laws of the universe.
Translated by the author.
The series:
Twelve Seconds, Twelve Years Ago
Fifteen Seconds, Fifteen Years Ago
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