In the limits of the Earth's solar system, whether in the past or the future.

Thanks to advances in knowledge and propulsion technology, by the year 2140, reaching Sedna Station took only a few minutes. This planetoid, like others located in the Kuiper Belt, the outer boundary of the solar system that includes Earth, served as a distribution point from which to plan the subsequent jumps in the galactic sector marked as the objective.

The spaceship Dédalus-UCA1, built by the Dédalus Consortium, had set its goal to the BD-22-5866 tetra-star system, located one hundred and sixty-six light-years away in deep space within the boundaries of the Aquarius constellation. To reach there, warp engines alone were not sufficient; it required the use of an interstellar bridge. Sedna Station, therefore, was the final link to the Earth's solar system, and it was inevitable to feel both fear and nostalgia. And there I was, Homero Núñez "Cuentero," newly arrived with the rest of the crew and passengers, some of whom aimed to become colonists on one of the remote worlds we would encounter during our journey.

Specifically, I was a member of the group of explorers who had embarked on the fascinating quest for a galactic "treasure," as scholars referred to the mythical Sonnenblumendorf village or Florida Villa of the Sunflowers, as it was translated, which they believed could be found in the far reaches of the known universe, somewhere on the border between the galactic sectors of Epôs and Zetaleb.

At first, I decided to join the expedition because I had been depressed for some time. Writer's block had engulfed me, making it impossible to organize my thoughts and fulfill my literary commitments, letting down my agent Orestes Crisomallón. This blockage made me feel trapped, lost, a man without purpose and in constant nausea. The blockage seemed insurmountable, at least with the methods, environments, and perspectives that had been helpful in similar situations before, whether legal or illegal, like traveling or indulging in substances.

The feeling of emptiness, the horror of facing the daunting space of the blank page, became so overwhelming, too overwhelming, that my desperation and anguish led me to contemplate extreme solutions. However, aware of the possibilities, I didn't want to worry anyone and chose to seclude myself where no one could easily find me.

Yes, it was a cowardly and selfish reaction, I know that now, and I knew it then too, but I didn't care. Nevertheless, when I realized that my decision, even my suicide, could cause greater imbalance, I tried to organize the material that composed the promised Beastly Labyrinth novel for Orestes. My wild idea was to reassure him with something, anything. However, I was so absorbed in self-pity and confusion that I only sent him incoherent drafts.

One day, I saw an announcement on social media about a plan for an archeoastronomical expedition, and since archeoastronomy had been one of my passions, I signed up without hesitation. The organizers warned me about routine exams, not because there were many volunteer candidates or those interested in the pay, but because the mission would require certain conditions, knowledge, and skills that I, as a dilettante in the field and due to my advanced age, surely didn't fully meet. Of course, I had to deviate a bit from the legal path to overcome the exam hurdle, as my health would have been an obvious impediment. Some time ago, I had been diagnosed with an extremely rare disease; however, a bit of extra money and emotional blackmail proved enough to persuade the necessary parties and include me in the crew. I think it was the only time I blessed the damn corruption prevalent on Earth and other worlds. This corruption temporarily justified the negligence surrounding my case because, as I made clear to the recruiters, I had nothing left to lose. For me, it was preferable to meet Death in the middle of nowhere than to become nothing while waiting for death. Besides, not being a technician or specialist, I would try to stay on the sidelines of the primary tasks, perhaps as a quality witness due to my fame.

I was aware that my decision had not been well thought out, but I attended the preparatory courses, and what followed was my amazement at the journey itself from liftoff. That was something new to me. While this was not a typical tourist exploration trip to the ruins of Phobos, for example, the passage through Mars was mesmerizing. That twentieth-century writer I claimed to be influenced by, Ray Bradbury, and not to mention the cultural products that followed in the subsequent centuries, had fallen far short in their descriptions, as did the fascinating mythological idea that sees the Moon as a metaphorical synonym for the mirror, and the supposed prefigured face in view of the distance on its visible surface, like the conjectural remembrance that we are made in the image and likeness of something divine.

I thought about such things when Bradbury's ingenious metaphor came to mind from one of his novels, "The Martian Chronicles," where the astronaut's son asks almost at the end where the aliens are, and his father, William Thomas, points to the reflections of the whole family in a Martian stream. Then, I focused my attention on my reflection on the glass of the window in my assigned cabin at Sedna Station. I remembered that strange dream from years ago when I saw myself gazing into the mirror in my room on Earth, and suddenly, through the cloth, I saw, mixed with the moon's glimmers and the objects behind me, the eyes and the face of what seemed to be a woman or the female of some rare species looking surprised at me. The analogical parallel was obvious: I was an Earthling alien amid the rugged terrain of Sedna, perhaps a dream about to come true, the product of someone else's imagination; or I was just being spied on by a specter from some unknown dimension.

My hands were restless, even more so than my thoughts and memories, acting almost on their own with routine tasks like arranging objects on the table, storing things, folding and cutting papers. Perhaps a brilliant burst in the deep space distance could attract or distract my attention, focusing it on that point.

Science would have many consistent explanations for that sudden bright star, perhaps a newly born supernova. But "newly born" in my eyes, because physics would say that such an extraordinary event in deep space could have occurred millions of years in the past, although the wise, still at this point in history, disagreed about the age of the universe, whether it was expanding or contracting, or whether it was a limited sphere or an immeasurable void without boundaries, much like this void within me, which, what a contradiction, had filled me since that fateful day when she left me, leaving me with no reason to justify my existence except those feigned in my work as a writer. With her departure, I not only found myself orphaned of love but also orphaned of ideas. From that day on, everything lacked meaning; I did everything out of mechanical routine, to maintain appearances, but in truth, I no longer wanted to continue living. When Dr. Murnau delivered his prognosis, effectively pronouncing me as beyond hope, I expressed gratitude. Yet, it also inundated me with a disquieting uncertainty. For this ailment defies conventional description; it possesses the capricious power to swiftly end one's life or to prolong agony, or even to vanish abruptly. It can bestow happiness or inflict profound pain. The most peculiar aspect of this affliction lies in its absence of physical, anatomical, or physiological manifestations; indeed, such manifestations, when they do manifest, are exceedingly rare. Rather, we can assert that it is an ailment of the soul.

The "vundü," once associated solely with sentiment or, erroneously, with "nzâra," was recently revealed to be a disorder, not of the body, but of the soul and spirit. What the ancients philosophers, poets, and sorcerers could distinguish and articulate with words, physicians resisted acknowledging as a concrete condition. They pigeonholed the affliction into vague concepts like "melancholic humor," and later, as they became dependent on methodical, measurable, controllable, repetitive, replicable observation of natural phenomena for empirical comprehension, they dismissed it entirely, depriving themselves of the subtle nuances behind intuition.

Only a few centuries ago did standardized science, thanks to a visionary who achieved what seemed impossible, finally acknowledge the occurrence of phenomena in dimensions beyond the corporeal realm. This visionary recorded and measured events in parallel dimensions, perhaps perceptible only through faith or intuition. Since then, the "vundü" has been understood as a state of mind where the waves of memory commingle with emotional imprints of sensory experiences. These imprints not only acquire significance and trigger hormonal storms but also intensify, generating images we had hitherto regarded as purely dreamlike or phantasmagorical, as neurotic delusions, or mere "mawa."

I longed to cross that threshold, to experience what I envisioned as a black hole, absorbing all my misery and transitioning into a state, if not joyful, at least different and less oppressive. I yearned to cease feeling like a living corpse, a wandering specter, and become truly alive.

Then, I looked at my reflection in the window once more. But this time, I didn't see that hopeful alien on Sedna. Instead, I saw a somber, gray man holding a pair of scissors in his left hand, poised to plunge them into his jugular and carotid arteries with one decisive, lethal thrust. I recoiled in horror.

I don't know if heaven and hell exist or if they are merely constructs of gullible minds. Science has failed to provide proof of these realms of guilt and forgiveness. But in that moment, just as now, my meager conjectures were all I had. If there was an afterlife, I wanted to meet it with my integrity intact, respecting the life that she, as the vessel, had bestowed upon me. Perhaps this hastily chosen journey held a deeper meaning I, for now, declared myself inadequate and ignorant of discovering and comprehending.

I was running, that much was clear. But I was unsure of what I was fleeing from or towards. Perhaps, with luck, I would soon find out.

* * *

Casa de la Mirada, on a new November day in 2022.

The clock struck nine in the morning. As had become customary, little Blue, the cat, delicately placed his paw on Homero's cheek to awaken him, synchronizing with the alarm clock. If Homero resisted, Blue would subtly extend his claw to remind him that it was time to eat, relieve himself, and start the day. Afterward, Blue might curl up for a little while to complete his requisite eight hours of sleep. This simple gesture, among others, led Homero to believe that Blue was the reincarnation of his mother, or at least the temporary vessel for her spirit. A similar sentiment emerged with his cat, Rorick, whose behaviors reminded him so much of his father.

Much like Blue, this was how Tere woke Homero in his childhood and still in his adulthood. She would approach his bedside slowly, gently caressing his cheek, just as she did when he was a baby, and softly whisper, "Homero, it's time to wake up." The scent, a blend of patchouli and woody notes with a hint of Tere's spicy perfume, would waft into Homero's nostrils, making its way to his prefrontal cortex. In his adulthood, this gesture became less frequent, replaced by an equally affectionate but distant wake-up call, devoid of shouting. Homero would immediately respond, opening his eyes with a smile, springing up, eager to recount his latest dream. It was a far cry from his sisters' reactions, who always woke up grumbling, groggy, and silent, resembling zombies until they fully regained consciousness.

Rorick, on the other hand, presented an entirely different challenge. With him, Homero learned how to handle cats, making numerous mistakes along the way, as is common for first-time pet owners. The worst error was when Rorick, instead of using the litter box, urinated on the bed. Homero picked him up, scolding him, shaking him, attempting to demonstrate the wrongdoing, much like one would do with a dog. He even tried to rub Rorick's nose in the urine, then forcefully carried him to the litter box to establish who was in charge. The cat never forgave him for that scolding, and from that point on, like rebellious children, he would urinate on the bed almost daily to get Homero's attention.

Oh, the nuances of behaviorism in the complex relationship between felines and humans! Rorick soon realized that this strategy achieved several things: it woke up the writer, guaranteed a meal, and provided entertainment. Just like Homero's father, Toño, a Leo by zodiac sign, used to play "bulldozer" during the writer's childhood. Toño would slip his arms under the blankets, sheets, and the child's body, mimicking the sound of a motor as he gently pushed Homero toward the edge of the bed, alternating the noise with a deep, "Wake up!" The child would wake up but pretend to remain asleep, stifling his laughter until he fell off the bed.

Of course, Homero was not naive. When he understood Rorick's intentions and began thinking from a feline perspective, a power struggle ensued, with Homero determined to assert himself as the alpha of the pack. So, every time Rorick misbehaved by urinating on the bed, Homero pretended not to care, enduring the foul dampness and continuing to sleep until the alarm or Blue intervened. In this battle, Rorick, always hungry, chose to incorporate Blue's tactics into his strategy. Consequently, when Homero didn't get up promptly, the original dose awaited him. It took Homero eight years to tame Rorick's behavior, which only happened after the cat fell ill with urinary issues. But Blue also learned, and when the writer didn't respond to his caresses, he resorted to Rorick's recipe. In the eyes of the cats, Homero had become well-trained.

If there was one thing that could define Casa de la Mirada to the majority who entered it, beyond the appearances that some found depressing and others found concerning, it was the sensation of absence. An absence that, nonetheless, had a face – or rather, several faces. These faces were displayed on the walls of the family gallery on the second-floor hallway. There were so many that at times, Homero felt like he was sharing the house with an invisible tenant, a master of disguise. Partially for this reason, and for economic reasons, Homero had rented out the main bedroom, his mother's room. His peculiar idea was that by allowing others to occupy that space, the absence would be less ominous. He was mistaken. Each new presence seemed to infuse new energy, not always positive, into the ghostly atmosphere. Nevertheless, it was not a malevolent haunting, quite the opposite. However, it could be overwhelming and even abominable at times. When he realized this, he recalled his parents' warning before they passed away: "Do not let anyone into the house." It was a prudent and forewarning advice to prevent people from taking advantage of Homero's kindness, as had happened with the last tenant who left after three years, owing a substantial sum of money. Yet, he left behind his belongings, which Homero attempted to use to recoup his losses by selling them as secondhand items.

Amidst the general emotional and economic crisis, as well as Homero's erratic biography, the atmosphere in Casa de la Mirada had a peculiar knack for transforming itself into its drier and harder counterpart, Haus des Blicks. If Casa de la Mirada could be sweet and welcoming, Haus des Blicks seemed tinged with an underlying sense of foreboding. Two sides of the same coin.

Homero had learned to manage his meager finances and dwindling resources by following his mother's teachings, a woman who, as a child and teenager, had endured hardships alongside her mother, Grandma Luisa. He had always been known for his hearty appetite. His father once quipped, half-jokingly, "Ay, m'ijo, it's cheaper to buy you clothes and books than to invite you to eat!" Homero wasn't what you would call overweight, though there were times in his youth when he had surpassed ninety kilograms. But these days, due to necessity, even the cats' food had to be rationed.

Fortunately, with his ingenuity and having learned and inherited his mother's culinary skills, he managed the situation decently, although at times, it was distressing. The global recession, the country's inflation, the lack of better income sources, the difficulty in finding employment or the impossibility of investing in a business, combined with a multitude of debts, commitments, and obligations, would have driven Homero, like anyone else, to the brink of despair or even suicide. However, the writer had learned from his parents, over the years and through past experiences, to equip himself with an invisible, impermeable cloak. Outwardly, it seemed that all adversity simply slid off him. Nevertheless, this cloak was not flawless, and from time to time, subtle cracks allowed unease to seep deep within, merging with the sense of absence, occasionally playing tricks on Homero.

Needless to say, two of the faces of this illusionist teacher were Homero's parents. However, not all facets were related to the deceased, as some were still alive and kicking, though separated by distance. Some were forced by circumstances of the past, while others were the result of life choices made by these spectral figures. Many times, Homero felt like one of them, undead in his own life.

Homero experienced four social deaths in his lifetime. Four times, and it was more than just feeling like he was dying. The first occurred at the age of nine. The second when he was fired from one of his jobs on the very day and hour when presidential candidate Luis Donaldo Colosio was assassinated. While he watched the event on television, a phone call informed him to pick up his severance check. The third humiliation was also work-related, and the fourth took place on the same day as his father's wake, from which he chose to retreat to avoid complications. He ended up alone, completely alone.

Amidst his social death, which had isolated him from the world for the fourth time in his life, as he wandered like a ghost, Homero, after breakfast and some writing, focused on his role as a gardener. Just as in the previous days and hours, this moment allowed him to refine his ideas, to somehow edit in his mind what he had written, seeking coherence between what was desired and what was achievable. A way to revive, even if only between the lines.

All of these thoughts occupied the writer's mind. Suddenly, while trimming the thorns from the pruned bougainvillea branches and gathering leaves for the compost pile, Homero had a revelation about the best path he could follow in the plot and development of his novel.