VII

Pedro, son of Tiburtino, was suffering in his bed on a rainy and cloudy morning. The old man was under the care of a grumpy lady who kept him locked in his room, supposedly for protection against the cold. This deprived him of fresh air and sunlight. He always woke up very early and lay in bed, lost in thought amidst the sound of rain and sleep. On one of these mornings, when company was needed, young Alex entered the room. He turned on the lights, which caused a sharp pain to the dying man's eyes, and before he could see, he heard:

— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.

The man lifted his pillow and sat up, looking intently, trying to recognize the young man.

— Who are you? — asked the elder.

— I am Francisco, your father's protégé.

The old man leaned his back against the pillow, startled by what he saw.

— Don't be afraid, I didn't come to harm you. What you did to me is not right, you paid for it, now I want you to rest.

— You are still...

— Yes. I am still as I was thirty years ago. In truth, I am as I have been for centuries. Unable to die. I am not here for myself, nor for your father's memory. I am here for you. Your father was ambitious, he made many mistakes. But he was a man who, upon repenting, fought until the end of his life for the forgiveness of those he offended. Forgiveness that you never gave... Pedro, if you do not forgive your father, you will never be forgiven.

— I would be lying if I said I held a grudge in my heart. I am dying now, how can I forgive someone. Even if I spoke, I would not be sincere.

— If you have a second of life, you have life. But I say you are not dying now.

— No!

— You are tired, weak. You will not live much longer. You will still see the rains end and the cold arrive. Your son will give you your third granddaughter.

— A granddaughter?

— A beautiful girl. Intelligent and kind. I cannot judge you, Pedro. You have borne good fruit, and many good deeds will be done by them. I ask you to take care of your soul today. Get up! You will die when God wills it, and you have nothing to do in this bed.

And on that rainy day, Pedro walked through the garden, picked roses, and managed to cheer up the prim old nurse by telling some anecdotes of a mischievous nature. The two old people danced and had fun until they were exhausted. The widower's last years were the best of his entire life. He played, walked through parks and streets. He courted his nurse. She accompanied him on a trip to Catalão where, beside his father's tomb, he told him he had nothing to forgive:

— Many are the sufferings of this life. I cannot understand them. Today, I only know that I would be damned, unworthy of my children's love if I had not lost them. Thank you, Father.

Pedro, son of Tiburtino, was suffering in his bed on a rainy and cloudy morning. The old man was under the care of a grumpy lady who kept him locked in his room, supposedly for protection against the cold. This deprived him of fresh air and sunlight. He always woke up very early and lay in bed, lost in thought amidst the sound of rain and sleep. On one of these mornings, when company was needed, young Alex entered the room. He turned on the lights, which caused a sharp pain to the dying man's eyes, and before he could see, he heard:

— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.

The man lifted his pillow and sat up, looking intently, trying to recognize the young man.

— Who are you? — asked the elder.

— I am Francisco, your father's protégé.

The old man leaned his back against the pillow, startled by what he saw.

— Don't be afraid, I didn't come to harm you. What you did to me is not right, you paid for it, now I want you to rest.

— You are still...

— Yes. I am still as I was thirty years ago. In truth, I am as I have been for centuries. Unable to die. I am not here for myself, nor for your father's memory. I am here for you. Your father was ambitious, he made many mistakes. But he was a man who, upon repenting, fought until the end of his life for the forgiveness of those he offended. Forgiveness that you never gave... Pedro, if you do not forgive your father, you will never be forgiven.

— I would be lying if I said I held a grudge in my heart. I am dying now, how can I forgive someone. Even if I spoke, I would not be sincere.

— If you have a second of life, you have life. But I say you are not dying now.

— No!

— You are tired, weak. You will not live much longer. You will still see the rains end and the cold arrive. Your son will give you your third granddaughter.

— A granddaughter?

— A beautiful girl. Intelligent and kind. I cannot judge you, Pedro. You have borne good fruit, and many good deeds will be done by them. I ask you to take care of your soul today. Get up! You will die when God wills it, and you have nothing to do in this bed.

And on that rainy day, Pedro walked through the garden, picked roses, and managed to cheer up the prim old nurse by telling some anecdotes of a mischievous nature. The two old people danced and had fun until they were exhausted. The widower's last years were the best of his entire life. He played, walked through parks and streets. He courted his nurse. She accompanied him on a trip to Catalão where, beside his father's tomb, he told him he had nothing to forgive:

— Many are the sufferings of this life. I cannot understand them. Today, I only know that I would be damned, unworthy of my children's love if I had not lost them. Thank you, Father.