When he finished the passage, he closed his eyes. Then he spoke the two words that Luna had heard ten thousand times, the words that marked the end of every reading.
“Amén. Amén.”
He found his place. John 14:1–3. The words of Jesus about going to prepare a place. Then he read aloud, his accent thick, the old Castilian of the 1960 translation rolling like stones in a river: biblia reina valera 1960 amen amen
“Bored?” he finally whispered, his voice a gravel road. “Child, this book is not for entertainment. It is for standing .”
The old man’s name was Héctor, and every night at exactly nine o’clock, the leather-bound book came out. It sat on the same worn spot of the oak table, its spine cracked like dry riverbed earth, the gold lettering faded to a dull bronze: When he finished the passage, he closed his eyes
“Jehová es mi pastor; nada me faltará…” (Psalm 23:1, RV1960)
And somewhere—beyond the storm, beyond the valley, beyond the veil—a old man in a simple chair smiled, and whispered back the same. Then he read aloud, his accent thick, the
“Amén. Amén.”