The Hill That Keeps Its Own Time

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Rafito el Varado climbed the hill without negotiating with it. The path was made of stones that had already decided where they belonged. Cypresses stood along the slope like tall, thin librarians guarding a collection of silence.

At the top sat the old stone building, squared and patient, its tower rising as if it had been assigned that job long ago and never questioned it. The walls held the color of bread left too long in the sun. Rafito stopped a short distance away, giving the place enough room to remain itself.

Nothing moved quickly. A bird crossed the sky, then reconsidered and crossed it again in the opposite direction, as if checking for errors. The wind touched the grass briefly and moved on, uninterested in conversation.

Rafito leaned against a low wall. The stones were warm and slightly rough, like they had opinions but no desire to share them. Below, the land unfolded in terraces and dry patches, organized without enthusiasm. Somewhere beyond the hill, the sea existed, but it did not feel the need to announce itself.

The building’s windows were small and deliberate. They did not offer views so much as suggestions. Rafito imagined that if you looked out from inside, you would see exactly what was necessary and nothing extra. This seemed efficient.

A bell rope hung beside a door, unmoving. Rafito did not touch it. The bell, he assumed, already knew how to ring and did not require encouragement. He sat on the ground instead, letting his shadow arrange itself beside him like a quiet companion who had brought no questions.

Time behaved differently here. It did not advance so much as stand nearby, hands in its pockets, waiting to be acknowledged. Rafito did not acknowledge it. He watched the light shift across the stone, a slow migration with no destination.

When he stood again, nothing protested. The hill remained. The building kept its shape. Rafito walked back down the path, leaving the place intact, as one leaves a well-made sentence alone after reading it once.