He felt like he was going into hibernation.

Slowly, excruciatingly, as if an eternity had passed.

During this time, he stitched and patched his wounds. He took a needle, a tiny thread, and pierced his skin. But more than the skin, he was piercing everything inside him.

At least he was safe. Inside his bubble, deep inside his dark cave. And when one is inside his bubble, one feels healthy, safe, happy and blessed. Everything is common, familiar, nothing is new, everything is a habit. And a habit is something good. Nothing changes. Nothing should change.

Inside his bubble, he could show, - no, better yet, prove - to himself, his old self, the one he didn't know, the one he was afraid of, that he could do anything.

But now? What would happen now? Why did he come now? Now that he had begun to recover, to live, to forget? Now that he had learned how to breathe again?

But now, in front of him, in front of Carlos, what flowed from his eyes was not a river of water.

He was not crying a river.

Now he was bleeding an entire ocean.

He had fought and resisted entire bottles. He had won. After he had lost everything, after there was nothing left, not even a hug, not even some comfort, from anyone in his life, he had won. He had found a little corner. A place to sit, to hide, and maybe - maybe one day, to live.

Many times the memories washed over his mind like a torrent. They came uninvited, tender, other times cruel and impersonal. When the last ones came, they choked him, and dragged him away.

And now, here he was. But it had passed. It was all in the past. He had told himself that everything was okay.

He tried to hold back the blood that was flowing from his eyes, but his body wouldn't obey him. He felt ashamed. But he didn't even have the strength to move his hand to wipe his face. He felt weak. Exhausted, once again.

"I thought maybe you'd like to have a drink," the man across from him said.

Fidalgo raised his big eyes and looked at him.

It was just a drink. It was all okay.

"Alright," he replied.

It was just a drink. Then he would say his farewells.

This winter of this year, Fidalgo was bleeding once again.

He was bleeding Winter Blood.