Rafito el Varado and the Cliffside of Unfinished Houses

More about Rafito el Varado and the Cliffside of Unfinished Houses

Rafito el Varado arrived at Altavira del Mar, a cliffside village where every house appeared to be holding its breath. Pale stone dwellings leaned at curious angles, stacked like half-forgotten toys on rock ledges that seemed too fragile to exist. The sea below flashed turquoise and jade, shifting with the mood of the afternoon.

He came because someone had slipped a note into the pocket of his shirt during his nap on the beach. It said only:
“There is a door in the cliffs. Do not open it.”

Which, of course, guaranteed he would go looking.

Altavira was a village of watchers. People stood on balconies pretending to prune plants or shake out tablecloths, but really tracking Rafito’s movements. Cats lounged on stairways that led nowhere. Children played with wind-shaped kites that fluttered like wounded angels. Everything seemed unfinished, as if the entire town were still being painted.

Rafito followed a narrow path carved into two towering ochre cliffs. The sea below frothed against jagged rocks, impatient and theatrical. Then he saw it: a door outlined cleanly in the stone, its faded blue paint peeling like old sky. No handle. No hinges. Just a suggestion of entry.

He pressed his ear to it. At first, silence—thick and expectant. Then he heard a faint brushing sound, like sweeping in an endless hallway. Then a soft humming, the kind people make when they’re trying to remember something important.

Above him, a woman watering cliff-flowers muttered, “Don’t open it.”
“Why not?” Rafito asked.
“It isn’t finished,” she said simply.

Unfinished things were Rafito’s specialty. He’d never trusted anything completely polished.

He pushed the door.

It opened inward with absurd ease.

Inside was a vertical sea—an entire ocean turned upright. Waves rolled sideways, and small boats drifted across the watery wall as if obeying a gravity from another world. Schools of fish glided in spirals, and the whole surface shimmered like a dream that refused to settle into reality.

Rafito dipped his hand into it. The water was warm, inviting. It pulled at him gently, as if offering an escape into a version of Altavira where things were finished, where houses stood straight and secrets behaved themselves.

He hesitated.

Then he stepped back, withdrawing his hand.

“No,” he murmured. “Not today.”

The door eased shut with a sigh.

When he turned, the villagers were watching plainly now—some relieved, others disappointed, all certain he might return.

Rafito tipped his hat, climbed back toward the leaning houses, and left the sideways sea behind. After all, some mysteries were meant to remain deliciously unfinished.