Melissa Albert

Mira hasta que el rojo tiña las hojas, con un hilo cose los mundos y las cosas. Cuidado si tu viaje no termina: teme que el sol salga en la colina.

—(…). En él no hay lecciones. Solo hay un mundo duro y horrible salpicado de una magia hermosa, en el que ocurren cosas espantosas. Y no ocurren por un motivo, ni en series de tres, ni de un modo que recuerde a la justicia. Los cuentos están ambientados en un lugar que no tiene reglas ni las quiere tener. Y la voz de la autora (la voz de tu abuela) es completamente despiadada. Es como una reportera de guerra a quien no le importa una mierda.

Everyone is supposed to be a combination of nature and nurture, their true selves shaped by years of friends and fights and parents and dreams and things you did too young and things you overheard that you shouldn't have and secrets you kept or couldn't and regrets and victories and quiet prides, all the packed-together detritus that becomes what you call your life.

I had...something with him. I'd never quite decided what that might be, but there was this skin of meaning that had attached itself to him. Maybe it was [...] the way our paths kept crossing like we were skaters spinning in a figure eight. Or maybe it was wanting to see that light in his eyes again, a possibility that made my skin flutter with heat rash.

My mind was an old cassette tape that kept being recorded over. Only wavering ghost notes from the old music came through. I wondered, sometimes, what the original recording would sound like. -What the source code of me might look like. I worried it was darker than I wanted it to be. I worried it didn't exist at all.

Nothing could be worth feeling this way. I feel like a changeling wearing someone else's skin. I can't remember what I liked, or what I wanted, why I worked or left the house or did anything. It's all gone [...] I think whatever I used to be, it dropped through the binding. I wish the rest of me had gone with it.

Is that all there is? The thought come to me on a scrap of song. The thing between us, the weird growing thing that looked like nothing head-on but sometimes glowed in the corners of my vision, like a secret. Was it just a crush, something as stupid as that? Would we get coffee now? Would he try to hold my hand?

...And it was perfect. There are no lessons in it. There's just this harsh, horrible world touched with beautiful magic, where shitty things happen. And they don't happen for a reason, or in threes, or in a way that looks like justice. They're set in a place that has no rules and doesn't want any.

It was good walking side by side with him, looking straight ahead. There was a strange new heat that ran through me like electricity every time our eyes met. Like our conversation the night before had tapped some hidden well of light in him, and now he was too bright to look at.

«Las Historias son perfectas. Las Historias son mundos enteros.
He creado un mundo entero solo para ti, y en él consigues hacer lo que nadie logra: consigues vivir y vivir y vivir.
Y todo terminará siendo como tiene que ser, pase lo que pase.»