It happened while we were standing in the middle of the street, can’t remember if cars where passing by but I still remember the wind starting to blow suddenly, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, and blowing away the earth tones of the afternoon air. No, that wind was not going to put down the fire burning inside me: for that I needed the blows of arctic winds, and, arctic winds do not blow in this city. I looked at the buildings around us and instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes; they were growing older, channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces. Wet leaves brought by the wind got caught into Miguel’s hair. The old laurel wreath of dead heroes! But he was no hero. He was just standing there and staring at me. He was standing there believing that loving me would make him a hero. I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips. I whispered: “I am the wounded healer that does not heal anymore. I cannot make you into a hero. I died long time ago, and yet a fire still burns inside me. Go away, go to the end of this world and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I will look for you. I will find you, and then I will heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer that does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.” Around us mounds of ocre wet sand. No buildings were left. Tears of sorrow were falling from his eyes. And the wind stopped blowing leaving behind the faint smell of the warm salty ocean.