I have always been drawn to the margins of the ordinary, to those quiet moments where life brushes against something deeper, something eternal. In the cemetery, Amador Rabal moves among crosses and fading flowers, polishing golden letters, tending to names that no longer speak. He works the earth with the grace of a gardener, his hands steady, his presence reverent. He sits in silence, a cigarette resting between his fingers. The smoke curls from his lips like an exhalation of the soul, rising, disappearing. We both understand—this is where we are born, and if fate allows, this is where we will return. And isn’t sleep itself a rehearsal for death? Memento mori.