There are irresistible losses. Carlos del Puente relatos

 There are irresistible losses. They placed their hope in a God of the Future, in the materiality of his hybrid body. Each determinant shapes the appearance of a part independently, the effect of which breaks the perception of unity. This only happens in the branch of this species of objects on the surface of which the exact perception of harmony is manifested in its maximum splendor. In the quiet corner of a dusty antique shop, a peculiar clock sat perched on a shelf, its wooden frame carved with intricate designs that seemed to dance in the dim light. Mr. Jenkins, the shop's elderly owner, had never quite figured out how it ended up in his possession. It was a silent sentinel amidst the clutter of forgotten relics, a stark reminder of a time when craftsmanship and patience held more value than the ticking hands of mass-produced timepieces. The clock was peculiar not just for its silence, but for the way the light played with the grains of its aged surface, revealing a hidden pattern of stories. One summer afternoon, a young woman named Lila wandered into the shop, her eyes immediately drawn to the clock. She approached it with a gentle curiosity, her fingers tracing the grooves of its aged exterior. The warmth of her touch seemed to stir something within, and Mr. Jenkins watched in amazement as the clock's hands began to move, not in a smooth, mechanical sweep, but with a life of their own—each determinant, each gear, moving independently yet in perfect harmony. The clock had never worked in the time he'd owned the place, and he felt a sudden thrill at the sight of its silent dance. Lila stepped back, her eyes wide with wonder. "It's alive," she murmured. Mr. Jenkins, his heart racing, nodded slowly. "It seems so, doesn't it?" The clock's movements grew more animated, its ticking echoing softly through the shop like a heartbeat. Lila leaned in closer, her gaze transfixed by the mesmerizing display of synchronized chaos. Each tick was a whispered promise of a future unseen, a secret shared by the gears and springs that had lain dormant for so long. As the clock chimed the hour, a soft, melodious song filled the air, and the hidden drawers along the base began to open and close in a rhythmic waltz. Mr. Jenkins cautiously approached the clock, his hands trembling. "What...what is this?" he stuttered. Lila offered a soft smile, her eyes still locked onto the clock. "I believe it's a testament to the beauty of imperfection. Each piece, moving independently, contributes to a harmony that's more than the sum of its parts. It's a symbol of life, of destiny, of how every choice we make shapes our future, even if we can't always see the pattern." The old man stared at her, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I've had this clock for decades, and it's never done this before. Why now? Why you?" Lila shrugged. "Perhaps it senses a kindred spirit," she said, her voice filled with a gentle warmth that seemed to resonate with the clock's rhythmic pulse. She reached out again, placing her hand on the wood, and the ticking grew louder, more insistent. The clock's face split into two, revealing a hidden compartment, and from it emerged a delicate metal key, glinting in the soft glow of the afternoon light. Her curiosity piqued, Lila took the key. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, as if it had been waiting for her all along. She inserted it into the keyhole at the center of the clock's face, and with a soft click, the entire mechanism opened up like a blooming flower. Inside, instead of the usual maze of cogs and springs, there was a miniature world—a landscape of rolling hills and a river that shimmered like quicksilver. Figures, no larger than grains of rice, moved about their lives, seemingly oblivious to the giant eyes watching them. Mr. Jenkins was speechless. He had owned this clock for decades and had no idea of the marvel hidden within its wooden shell. Lila felt a strange connection to the tiny world, as if it were a reflection of her own life, full of unseen forces moving her towards an unseen destiny. "What do we do with this?" she asked, turning the key slightly. Mr. Jenkins' gaze was glued to the intricate scene. "I... I don't know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I have a feeling you're meant to do something with it." Lila felt a sudden sense of responsibility. She turned the key gently, and the world inside the clock began to change—the river grew wider, the hills greener. The figures grew more detailed, their actions more deliberate. It was as if the key she held was the conductor's baton orchestrating the symphony of their lives. The clock's ticking grew louder, matching the tempo of her heart. "We must be careful," she said, her eyes still on the unfolding scene. "Every turn could change their fates." Mr. Jenkins nodded solemnly. "But for the better, I hope." Lila took a deep breath, her hand steady on the key. "I'll do my best." The two of them stood there for what felt like an eternity, watching the microscopic lives unfold before them. The figures grew more lifelike with each turn, their movements gaining a fluidity that defied their minuscule size. Lila noticed that the world inside the clock reflected the one outside its frame—the seasons shifted, and the tiny people built homes and bridges, planted crops and raised families. It was a living tapestry of existence, and she felt the weight of her newfound power keenly. casting long shadows across the shop floor, Lila and Mr. Jenkins continued to study the clock, discovering more secrets with each turn of the key. They watched as wars were waged and peace was brokered, as great inventions were born and forgotten empires crumbled to dust. It was a microcosm of human history, a silent testament to the fleeting nature of existence and the relentless march of time. One evening, as the last of the sun's rays painted the walls with a warm, golden glow, the clock's ticking grew erratic. The figures inside scurried about in a frenzied panic, their tiny lives thrown into chaos by some unseen event. Lila felt a knot of anxiety form in her stomach. Had she done something wrong? She had been turning the key with care, trying to guide the people of the clock towards a brighter future, but perhaps she had meddled too much. The river grew choppy, and a storm began to brew over the miniature landscape. Figures huddled together, seeking shelter from the tempest that had suddenly engulfed them. Mr. Jenkins looked to Lila, his eyes filled with concern. "What's happening?" With a trembling hand, Lila paused in her careful turning of the key. "I'm not sure," she said, her voice tight with worry. "But we need to fix this." Together, they studied the clockwork world, searching for signs of trouble. The storm grew worse, tiny lightning bolts flashing in the palm-sized sky. Lila noticed a single figure standing alone at the river's edge, seemingly untouched by the chaos around it. It was unlike the others—glowing with a faint light that pierced the dark clouds. "Look," she said, pointing to the solitary figure. "Maybe it's a guardian or a guide." Mr. Jenkins squinted, leaning closer to the clock face. "How do we reach it?" They pondered the question, the clock's tumultuous rhythm growing louder, the storm inside its belly raging on. Then Lila had an idea. Using the key as a makeshift probe, she carefully navigated the tiny world, feeling the resistance of the gears and springs beneath her fingertips. The figure took notice, raising a hand in what looked like a beacon or a plea. "I think it's reaching out to us," she said, her eyes reflecting the clock's inner light. "We need to bring it here." Mr. Jenkins nodded, understanding in his gaze. "But how?" Lila studied the clock's inner workings, her mind racing. "The key," she murmured. "It's connected to this world. Maybe it has the power to bring the guardian to us." With a deep breath, she inserted the key into the base of the clock and twisted it with all her might. The storm within grew fiercer, the ticking now a deafening roar. The tiny figure at the river's edge reached out, and as the key turned, a silver thread emerged from the guardian's hand, stretching across the landscape and wrapping around the key. The world inside the clock quivered, and the thread grew taut. Suddenly, the figure was yanked free from its world, soaring through the air and landing in Lila's open palm. It was no larger than a thumb, yet it radiated an aura of power that filled the room. The storm subsided, the ticking calmed, and the miniature world grew still. The figure looked up at her with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages.

By Carlos del Puente