CHAPTER 2

If only he could heal this, Marcus thought bitterly. He was a surgeon renowned for his expertise, a man whose hands had performed miracles in operating rooms. His colleagues spoke of him with reverence, marveling at his precision and skill. But none of that mattered here. The wounds he tended in his profession were tangible—visible cuts that could be sutured, broken bones that could be set. The wound inside him, however, was something no scalpel could mend. It was deep and unrelenting, a mix of grief, guilt, and longing that stemmed from memories too painful to dwell on. As much as Marcus wanted to believe that time could heal all wounds, he doubted it could ever touch the one etched in his heart.

“Dad?” Marcus’s voice was barely audible, as if even speaking louder would disturb the fragile silence surrounding the man sitting under the acacia tree.

His father, unmoving, kept his gaze fixed on some distant point, his expression a blend of detachment and tranquility. The sight tugged painfully at Marcus’s heart, a reminder of the father who had once been so full of life, now seemingly trapped in a world beyond his reach. His whisper, though soft, carried the weight of longing—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this time his father would turn to him.

The man didn’t stir, didn’t so much as blink in acknowledgment. Marcus stopped in his tracks, letting the reality sink in once more. He took a moment to truly look at his father. The sunlight filtering through the branches highlighted the lines of age etched into his face, each one a silent testament to a life well-lived yet marked by struggles Marcus couldn’t undo. His father’s posture was still, yet there was a kind of dignity in the way he sat, his hands resting gently on his lap. It was as if he had found peace—or perhaps given up entirely. The ache in Marcus’s chest deepened, and for a moment, he questioned whether coming here always did more harm than good.

“Dad,” Marcus tried again, his voice trembling slightly, the second attempt heavier with emotion.

This time, he forced himself to ignore the lump rising in his throat, the sharp pain that made it difficult to breathe. He needed to speak, needed to break through the invisible wall that seemed to separate them. But no matter how many times he had done this before, the ache never got easier to bear. His father’s silence wasn’t new, but it carried the same devastating impact each time—a silence that spoke of memories lost and connections severed.

Marcus stood there, frozen in place, for what felt like an eternity. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as if the physical discomfort could anchor him. He wanted to shout, to cry, to demand that his father come back to him, even if only for a moment. But instead, he swallowed his pain, forcing it deep down where no one could see it. His lips trembled as he took a step forward, and his eyes remained fixed on his father’s still figure. The unspoken words between them hung heavily in the air, a reminder of all that had been lost and the fragile hope Marcus still clung to.

He knew that at any moment, his tears would fall. The dam he had built over the years, the wall of stoicism and strength, was beginning to crack under the weight of his emotions. But he refused to let it happen. From a young age, Marcus had taught himself that tears were a sign of weakness, something a man should never show, especially not in front of those who needed his strength. His father, once a towering figure in his life, had been a model of that kind of strength—silent, enduring, and unshakable.

Marcus wanted to honor that, to live up to the example set for him. So, he fought the tremor in his voice and the burning behind his eyes. He pressed his lips together, willing himself to hold it together. It had always been like this: the constant battle between vulnerability and control. But this time, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the fight.

After a few moments, he continued walking, his feet heavy with the weight of the moment. The air around him seemed thicker now, laden with unspoken words and unresolved pain. Yet, he kept moving, each step pulling him closer to the man who had once been his hero, his father. As he reached the spot where his father sat, he didn’t stop to speak right away.

Instead, he just stood there for a moment, taking in the quiet presence of the man who had shaped so much of who he was. The old man’s hair was now silver, and the lines on his face told stories of hardship and wisdom. But it was the stillness, the way he seemed to exist in a world entirely of his own, that struck Marcus most. It was as if the man had faded into the background of his own life, lost in time and memory, and Marcus was just another fleeting presence in that silent space.

Finally, he found the courage to sit beside him. It was a decision that seemed so simple, but it felt monumental in that moment. The bench creaked under their combined weight as Marcus settled beside the man, his body aching with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. He glanced at his father, taking in the gentle curve of his face, the soft lines that spoke of a life well lived, though now overshadowed by something more powerful and painful.

"Dad," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "Can I stay here for a while?" His words were simple, but they carried a world of meaning.

The question wasn’t just about staying physically beside him, but about being present in this moment, hoping that some connection, however fleeting, could bridge the vast chasm between them. The silence between them deepened, but Marcus didn’t mind. In that silence, he found solace, a strange comfort in simply being there, with his father, in this place that felt both familiar and impossibly distant.

At that moment, when his father’s gaze finally met his, something shifted within Marcus. It was a soft, almost imperceptible change, but it made his heart race. His father’s smile was warm, and for a fleeting second, it felt like the man Marcus remembered—the man who had always been strong, who had always protected him, who had always been there. But as their eyes locked, Marcus saw the truth in them.

The eyes that once held wisdom, strength, and love were now clouded, distant. It wasn’t the man he had known. It was as though he were staring at a stranger, a shadow of the person who had once shaped his world. And in that instant, Marcus couldn’t help but feel the weight of the years that had passed, the pain that still lingered between them, and the haunting memories that never fully faded. Those memories—some filled with love, others with heartbreak—had never fully healed, and no matter how much he had tried to bury them, they resurfaced now with an intensity that almost broke him.

But what truly shattered him was the sound of his father’s voice, fragile and soft, yet so painfully familiar. "My name is Mario Valencia, my wife is Juliana. She’s beautiful, so beautiful. I also have a son, his name is Marcus—he dreamed of becoming a doctor…"

The words, spoken with such quiet tenderness, hit Marcus with the force of a thousand memories. He had never expected to hear his father speak again, not in this way. His mind raced as the memories flooded back—the dreams his father had once had for him, the endless possibilities they had shared, before the silence had stolen those moments. But now, in these fragile words, Marcus saw not just the man he had once called his father, but a glimpse of the past—a past that had been buried under layers of regret, confusion, and unresolved pain.

The weight of those words crushed Marcus in a way he couldn’t explain. He felt as if the world had shifted beneath him. His heart ached with a sharpness he hadn’t felt in years, and the tears that had been buried deep inside him began to spill over. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as the emotions he had spent so long keeping at bay surged to the surface.

The floodgates opened, and the tears came without warning, rolling down his cheeks in a steady stream. For years, he had fought to suppress these feelings—he had built walls around his heart, convinced that he needed to be strong for his father, for his family, for himself. But now, in the face of his father’s voice—so fragile, so broken—everything he had tried so desperately to keep contained broke apart.

Marcus wiped at his eyes, his hands trembling as the reality of the moment sank in. The years of distance, the bitterness, the unresolved anger—all of it seemed to wash away with each tear that fell. He had thought he was immune to this kind of pain, convinced that he had moved on, that the man sitting before him wasn’t the father he had known. But as his father spoke, as those memories resurfaced, Marcus realized that no matter how hard he had tried to heal, some wounds never truly close.

His father’s words weren’t just a reminder of what had been lost; they were a call to face the brokenness that had shaped him into the man he had become. And as much as he wanted to resist, to hold on to the strength he had worked so hard to build, he couldn’t. The walls he had built crumbled in an instant, and all he could do was sit there, surrounded by the weight of his father’s fragile, haunting words.