The blade rested on the white cloth, still damp with foam and sweat, a shroud for the life Miguel was about to leave behind. Beside it, a towel carefully folded, as if each crease carried the weight of an ancient ritual, a silent farewell. The silence of the barbershop was almost religious, dense, punctuated only by the intermittent hum of the luminous pole outside, a ghostly reminder that the world, indifferent, still spun on.

Miguel sat in the client's chair, a place he never liked to be, an empty throne that now confronted him with the reality of his ruin. The mirror before him returned a reflection he barely recognized, a distorted image of himself: deep-set eyes, hollowed by insomnia and pain, an unkempt beard, a tangle of worries, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, suffocating him. Something was broken there, something irremediably shattered that he struggled to hide, even from the drinking buddies who, at times, shared their anxieties in the chair beside him.

With his left hand, he picked up a photograph, worn by time, its edges faded, but the image still vibrant. He and Helena, his little girl, smiling in front of their simple house with its moss-green facade, a home that now seemed distant, almost a dream. The sun of that day, the day they took the photo, still seemed to live on that paper, a warmth that contrasted with the cold that now enveloped him. She had her arms around his neck, her childish laughter echoing in his memory, a sound he feared he might never hear with the same purity again. He, with a look of someone who believed in tomorrow, a tomorrow that now slipped through his fingers like sand.

A sharp pain in his ribs made him wince, a cruel reminder of the disease consuming him. He coughed, a dry hack that scratched his throat, and disguised it, forcing a bitter smile. The illness was already taking its toll, day after day, stealing his breath, his strength, his hope. But it wasn't the chest pain that weighed most heavily. It was the future. Hers. Helena's future.

With his right hand, he held a letter. Three sheets of college notebook paper, folded with almost ceremonial care, handwritten in his firm script, each stroke a confession, a promise. On the cover, just one name, a whisper of love and despair: “For Helena.” He imagined her eyes reading those words, the confusion, the pain, the eventual understanding. He hoped she would understand. He hoped she would forgive him.

He took a deep breath, a shallow, painful gasp that barely filled his lungs. The disease advanced, relentless, but it wasn't the physical pain that suffocated him. It was the weight of the decision, the inevitability of the path he had chosen. “Forgive me, little one…” he whispered, looking at his own reflection, at the stranger the mirror showed him. “Daddy found no other way.” His voice was a thread, almost inaudible, but laden with deep pain, almost a lament. He didn't want this. He didn't want to become this. But for her, he would do anything.

On the wall, the clock read 11:18 PM, an implacable hand sealing his fate, a point of no return. Outside, a distant thunder echoed, a premonition. The rain hadn't started yet, but the smell of the storm was already in the air, an aroma of wet earth and something more, something dark and imminent. Miguel stood up, his steps firm, but his body heavy, walked slowly to the barbershop door and turned off the light. The street swallowed the shop's interior in a gentle darkness, a darkness that seemed to embrace him, welcoming him into his new purpose.

In the silence that remained, only the sound of the envelope being tucked into his jacket pocket, a dry, definitive sound. And the firm steps of someone who knew there was no turning back, of someone who had crossed an invisible line, driven by a love that knew no limits, no morals, no law. A love that, he knew, would smell of blood.