Cerrado.

After a good while in the closeted, dark space that he so often frequented, Ignacio realised the rain was beginning to give way under the strength of the August sun and shortly he would be obliged to return to the city in which he was supposed to be living.

His visits to this part of the house were discouraged by his Mother, even an absent minded observer would have appreciated her will only strengthened her son's to be there, save for when the heavy and thick mass of rain brought normal activities inside. His Mother had always keenly desired him to be normal and Ignacio felt it wasn't even some unattainable normality in him that she sought, but a code for him to change to being someone else altogether. So the two fought regularly. And it was to his great relief and fortune that the summer heat swept over the Mediterranean from foreign lands, unspeakable places his Mother daren't entertain, had been shrouded by the muffling grey cloak of rain.

As he observed the gradual resurgence of light filtering through the window and on to the bed which he lay, Ignacio calmly and slowly finalised his plans. He closed his eyes and reviewed them carefully but without any further consideration. Then he rose, and made the bed so it was in the same state as he found it, and went down the stairs to where he was sure his Father would be waiting ready to head out.

The room upstairs was notoriously outside time; not because he had no source of it but because he would idly lose its concept. Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the kitchen clock read it was well after siesta time but rather adapted his running thought to its sudden return and the accompanying regime that intruded into his world outside the room upstairs. Understanding, he envisaged the shop must be opening for trading or at least undergoing weather induced repairs, without seeing his Father or Mother he left the house.

The air was cold and the wind ruffling the clouds pierced his summer attire. He enjoyed the dull discomfort; it was vitalizing. He walked the way with a vigour he didn't usually carry on the walk to work but there was no avoiding the energy of the time. People seemed to share his spirit, the streets were already a buzz of activity not seen since the rain had begun. Final thunderclaps were heard as shop shutters were rolled up and signs ignited its evening intentions. Others ambled aimlessly, and slowly, they kicked at the stony ground and skimmed their toes in the puddles and took heavy breathes and prospectively assessed the reactivating economy; licking their lips, catching themselves in the glass windows and fingering their pockets. In an apparent awe as if discovering a lost-land that by unknown means was vaguely familiar.

It wasn't the time for shopping but the weather had transcended the routine of time and dictated mass behaviour. Ignacio arrived at the shop ready to embrace the shift. It was closed but the interior lights were on; his parents must have been finalising preparations or even waiting for him. The door was locked and displayed cerrado. He couldn't see any movement in the front and he used his key to skip inside. He was disappointed at the condition of the store; it looked as if nothing had been prepared and he had to dodge the abandoned rebajas signs that were dumped inside when the weather initially approached. He could see the stock and the till hadn't yet been closed off from that day. It was strange nothing was done. He continued past the clutter and into the back room, the hall light was on, as was the light in his Father's office. Ignacio found it empty and in the same unkempt state.

Where his parents might have been he did not know nor could he find a satisfying scenario in his mind that would allow him to start work on the shop. Then on the desk he saw an envelope with a scribbled Ignacio. He opened it without thought and read it through, taking every word, in complete haste. Only then did he allow the handwritten words of his Mother and the cold cordiality of his Father to sink in. The words advised Ignacio they had left for unspeakable lands, leaving him the house and the shop.

Ignacio's expression was blank. He slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved the pages of his scribblings that he had spent hours and hours in the upstairs room devising. He grabbed at the folded papers with both hands and calmly tore it over and over, before allowing the shreds to fall gently to the floor.