THE BALCONY AT PUNTA VARADA

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Rafito el Varado arrived at the cliffside by accident, which was how he preferred to arrive anywhere. The locals called the place Punta Varada, because every wandering soul eventually washed up there—if not in body, then at least in spirit. The cliffs rose like burnt sugar, leaning into the Mediterranean as if trying to overhear what the sea whispered to itself.

At the tip of the cliff stood an improbable four-story house, tilting slightly, as though startled to find itself still standing. No one claimed to have built it. Some said it appeared after a storm; others insisted it had always been there but only revealed itself to those in need of a pause. Rafito believed all versions equally.

He found shelter inside its courtyard, where twisted pines leaned inward like a congregation of conspirators. The sea below glowed a turquoise so vivid it looked mischievous, as if holding a prank just beneath the surface.

Inside the house he found dust, cracked tiles, and one inscription painted on the wall:

“Aquí se escucha mejor lo que el mundo calla.”
Here you hear best what the world keeps quiet.

Rafito took that as permission to stay.

Each morning he sat on the balcony with his notebook, watching the sea carve slow arguments into the cliffs. Some days he wrote; other days he simply watched the water make sense of itself. The wind flipped through his pages like an impatient editor.

One afternoon, he heard knocking from the tiny cave below—soft, persistent, like a forgotten memory trying to get back in. He climbed down the carved stone steps to the narrow cove, where waves folded themselves gently onto the gravel.

Inside the cave, half-buried in sand, he found a wooden box bound with tarnished brass. It had no lock, only a carved symbol he didn’t recognize but somehow trusted.

Inside lay a single object:
a small mirror, its surface fogged by salt and time.

When he wiped it clean, it did not show his reflection. Instead, it showed paths—moments he had not yet lived. A street in Nice he hadn’t walked. A café conversation with Django Reinhardt. A comic page drawn by R. Crumb where Rafito appeared as if he’d always belonged there. Even a lantern from a Hermit card he had not yet become.

The mirror pulsed softly, offering him a future ready-made.

Rafito shook his head.
“Not today,” he whispered. “Let the surprises stay surprising.”

He closed the box and left it in the cave, exactly where the sea could keep an eye on it.

That evening, back on the balcony, the wind nudged his notebook again—curious, insistent.

Rafito dipped his pen and smiled.

“All right,” he said,
“let’s write what the world is too shy to say aloud.”