Perhaps It Was Only the Wind…

He had been poor, born into a large family —one of those households where you must choose between putting bread on the table or sharing affection.

But Adrián —that was his name— understood very early that only constant, persevering work, the kind a seed does beneath the soil, could make him grow.

And that’s what he did with his life: he tended the seed of work and planted it deep within himself.

He was intelligent, determined, and had been born with a natural talent for recognizing opportunity when it appeared.

While others hesitated, he had already seized it in midair.

He used to say that opportunity was like a bird that never perched twice on the same branch.

And so it was: that ability to see it, to understand it, and to act without delay became his master key, the one that opened every decisive door in his life.

It isn’t easy to build a fortune in a small provincial town in northern Argentina, where those who get rich are usually politicians or the well-connected.

But he did it through his own effort, fighting for every coin, every day.

He relied on his ingenuity, his almost stubborn faith in work, and his gift for visualizing and seizing opportunity.

He built his life as one builds a new house: with foundations of patience, walls of perseverance, and a roof of well-placed hope.

He rose before the sun each morning.

Very young still, he had already saved enough to open his first small business —a kiosk that sold whatever goods arrived at his door.

Years went by, and through work, sacrifice, and thrift, he managed to grow that little venture into a small company.

The business continued expanding until it became a large enterprise, with a network of employees.

He earned their respect, even though he was brusque and sometimes bad-tempered.

I met him while I was running a small local newspaper that barely survived on commercial advertising.

Government ads were out of the question, since in every issue I exposed the corruption of the municipal administration.

It was obvious to everyone: the mayor, who had arrived in town with a worn-out bag and barely enough clothes to fill it, was now a millionaire.

To keep the paper alive, I needed sponsors —but few dared to advertise in a newspaper against the mayor.

Most depended on municipal favors, and taking sides against power was a risk few were willing to take.

So one day I gathered my courage and walked into Adrián’s office to ask for advertising.

I had nothing to lose; the no was already mine.

That’s why I was so surprised when, without hesitation, he said:

—“How much do you need?”

From that day on, he became the main advertiser for my paper.

I saw him once a month when I went to pick up the check.

We always ended up talking for a while.

He despised politicians who came to his desk offering shady deals: inflated budgets, kickbacks, double billing —the whole rotten list.

But Adrián didn’t need them; his company was already solid.

It was they who came begging, kissing his hand like pilgrims before a saint.

That’s how I got to know him —his virtues and his flaws, which he certainly had.

One day I gathered courage and asked him for a job for a friend.

He said,

—“Give me his contact.”

He kept his word. He called him and hired him.

He learned to enjoy the fortune he had worked so hard to build.

He didn’t deny himself anything.

He loved to travel and to share what he had with his family and friends.

He fulfilled all his childhood dreams, the ones he had kept in an old album of faded postcards.

To each postcard he would speak, promising:

—“One day, I’ll take my own photo of this place.”

One of those dreams was to travel to Norway and see the Northern Lights.

People said he cried when he saw that night sky painted with dancing curtains of green, red, and violet light.

Around that time, during one of our conversations, he told me that life was finally giving back a little of what it had taken from him —the hardships, the loneliness, the things he’d had to leave behind.

And then, without warning, calamity knocked on his door.

It wasn’t the same poverty that had shadowed his childhood —the empty table, the leaking roof, the ache of affection withheld.

No, this time it was his own body.

Misfortune arrived beneath the skin in the form of an incurable disease.

His body, which had endured years of stress, effort, and neglect, began to claim its debt.

He had poured all his energy into building that fortune, chasing the false angel of security.

When he received the diagnosis, he felt it was a punishment from heaven:

after being such an active man, never still for a moment, he was struck by an illness that would gradually paralyze him.

First the fingers, then the legs, until it reached his throat and stole his voice.

His body hardened, his once-bright flame dimmed, taking from him, little by little, every movement —but never his lucidity.

He left with dignity.

He had expressly forbidden any attempt to resuscitate him.

And when he felt his blood begin to thicken and slow, he sensed a final flicker of life —a last opportunity appearing before him.

He saw Death watching him from the doorway, impatient, like an old acquaintance waiting for her turn.

Serenely, he recognized her and smiled faintly, seizing that opportunity, the last of his life, with the same resolve with which he had faced every challenge.

He knew it was his final door, and he wanted to cross it on his own terms, without anyone stopping him.

That afternoon, exactly at five o’clock, I received the message:

—Adrián has died.

A chill ran through me, a thorn of pain pierced my heart.

Why did Death take him?

It didn’t seem fair —not now, when he had begun to reap all he had sown, when he was finally enjoying his grandchildren.

Are there unjust deaths and just ones, deserved or undeserved, or is there simply Death?

Why achieve so much only to find that one day none of it matters, when illness takes possession of the body?

I went out into the patio; I needed to breathe.

The sky had an odd color.

A strange stillness hung in the air.

The silence was heavy, oppressive.

The air itself felt dense, unmoving, as if caught in the heat of a tropical afternoon.

Nothing stirred.

The only sound was my own breathing.

Sadness tightened around my chest like a knot.

I took several deep breaths.

And then I saw it: a branch of my poinsettia —the Star of the South, my Estrella Federal— whose tip held a large red flower, bright as a beacon, began to sway from side to side.

Astonished, I noticed that the other branches and every other plant in the garden were still.

Only that flower moved.

I’ll never know why, but I found myself asking aloud,

—Adrián, is that you?

The red flower of the poinsettia, as if in reply, swayed more strongly, back and forth.

Yes.

It was him.

He had come to ease my sorrow, to say goodbye to me and to this world.

Then I heard the message —not with my ears, but inside my mind:

—I’m all right. I feel no pain. I’m at peace.

A gentle breeze touched my hair and carried away my sadness.

I smiled.

—You’re all right, I whispered.

I looked at the poinsettia again; once more it trembled before my eyes, then stilled, as quiet as the rest of the garden.

Was it you, Adrián, who came to say farewell, to let me know you were well?

Or was it, perhaps, only the wind that moved that red flower before my eyes?

Life, I think now, has strange ways of saying goodbye.

It doesn’t always use words —sometimes only a breath, a branch that bends, a flower that trembles.