Fatima: The Final Secret. Juan Moisés De La Serna

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      I was alone in the room. I had closed the door. I did not want any surprises, someone who needed something and came at that inopportune moment to ask me, or any of the guys wanting to ask me about something.

      I don’t know why, but I had suddenly become afraid and that was what made me not only turn the key to lock the door, but also to place a chair to jam the door, something that I was surprised to find myself doing, because it was a reflex, like I was protecting myself, but I wasn’t sure what from.

      At that moment, I saw myself doing it and I had no logical explanation for it. It seemed that I was anticipating the problems I would have in the future, but now I had no reason to be so cautious.

      I took the object slowly with my hands. I’d left it on the bed when going to lock the door, because a moment ago when I was finally on the verge of seeing it, I realized that anyone could come in and catch me with it in my hand, so I left it very carefully on the bedspread. Now back, I took it between my fingers as carefully as if it were a delicate crystal.

      I noticed the calluses I had on the palms of both hands, anyone who saw them wouldn’t doubt for a moment that they were the hands of a laborer, perhaps a full-time bricklayer. I had already gotten used to them, but Mom said that “I had to take care of them, that my hands were going to spoil me forever and that no girl would want me to caress her, because I would scratch her.”

      Chelito had found that very amusing and said:

      “You’re going to stay single, nobody will ever love you.”

      “You shut up snot nose, they’re hardly gonna be knocking down your door either with those freckles you have, who’s going to notice you? And if they do it’ll only be to try to wash your face, to see if they can get those spots off you,” I said jokingly, but it always ended up making her angry, although that wasn’t what I’d intended, because my little sister was the one I loved the most.

      When my mother heard me, she scolded me:

      “Manu, you’re too old to treat your little sister like that, don’t you see what you’ve done?”

      “Mom,” said Chelito, “but don’t you see that the poor thing has no other way of messing with me? He always says the same thing to me. It’s because men are ‘so dense’ that on some rare occasion, when something occurs to them, they use it all the time. Manu’s problem is that he envies me, you’ve not noticed it, he knows I’m smarter than he is,” and with a laugh from my mother, the discussion was over:

      “It’ll be as you say darling, Manu would like to have freckles like you,” and off she went to get on with her tasks.

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      I stopped looking at my hands and being careful not to damage what I had between them right then, I went ahead. I carefully removed the papers from the wrapper, I had already seen how fragile they all were when they’d been covered, and how they’d been damaged as soon as they were touched. Now I saw that yellowish paper and I took it out with great care. I was surprised; inside was “a little book.”

      I sat on the bed, a chill ran through my body, what was I doing with that it my hands?

      I looked around the room, as if wanting to make sure nobody saw me. “What nonsense!” I told myself.

      Nobody can get in here and there’s nowhere to hide, since the room was very small. A bed, which was indeed very comfortable; a nightstand with a drawer; the chair which I had placed at the door earlier; a small closet, which of course would only be capable of hiding someone very thin, and the table placed in front of the window; that window through which the light entered and you could see the small courtyard down below, a white wall opposite and nothing else.

      That made me feel calmer. I was sure that nobody was watching me. Sitting on the bed, I shifted as if wanting to reassure myself. I corrected my posture, because I had a nervous itch that ran down my back.

      I realized, what if someone had slipped into the bathroom? And as if propelled by a spring, I jumped up and moving around the bed I abruptly opened the door.

      At that moment, again I thought, “What nonsense!” It was naturally empty.

      As my nerves were making my hands all sweaty, I rinsed them in the sink since I was already there, and taking the towel, I dried them. When I tried to put it back where it’d been hanging, I missed and it fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. As I put it back on the towel rack, I saw myself in the mirror and I said to myself, “Manu, why are you so nervous? This is very strange for you, calm down.”

      I turned around and went back into the bedroom, I went around the bed, and sitting down again carefully, I took that little book that was there waiting to be looked through.

      “BREVIARIUM,” yes, that’s what it said on the cover, which left me thoughtful for a few moments. Who would have left their prayer book in there? Why would they have hidden it in the first place? What fears led them to hide it so carefully? How would they have managed to find the right place? It’s not easy to take a brick out of those pilasters, which are solid and usually strongly secured.

      The questions were crowding my mind, without giving me time to find any logical answers that could clarify anything. I opened that “Little book” that I had in my hands with great curiosity, with those black covers made of a strong cardboard, but which were very worn.

      It was clear that it had been used a great deal, but why had the owner left it there hidden despite clearly having loved it so much? Maybe the plan had been to retrieve it at a later date?

      I don’t know how many mysteries were surging through my mind, but what I was sure of was that it belonged to a woman. Why? That was simple, the place was a convent for nuns, as far as I was aware. That was the reason it had been built and it had never had any other tenants aside from them.

      I looked at it carefully and thought, “Surely it had to belong to one of them,” but why would she have put it in such an unusual place? And if she’s living there, why hadn’t she taken it out when she’d learned that we were going to repair the walls?

      It might be that the owner is no longer there, perhaps she’s already passed away, or she’s gone somewhere else. Then, why wouldn’t she have taken it with her? Maybe she forgot about it, it all seemed so strange to me!

      Reflecting on these questions, I stopped and closed the “Little book” again. What if it was personal? What if she had something written down? What right did I have to read something personal that someone had written in there?

      I started to feel like an intruder who was going to violate someone’s privacy, who was going to break that veil of mystery that the person had wanted to cover up there, so well-hidden, and who did I think I was to clumsily handle the discovery of that secret that she wanted to keep?

      I really didn’t believe that anyone would put it there as a joke, if they were hiding it there for a prank and someone had taken it from its owner and hidden it there for her to find, why would it still be hidden there? Who would it belong to?

      Of course, what was certainly beyond any doubt, is that it had been there for a long time because of the fragility of the fabric that it had been wrapped in, or could it be that the fabric was part of the joke? and it was already old and fragile when she put it there. Surely not! If so, whoever it was would have wrapped it up with more care.

      I was pondering these questions when I heard a knock on the door that scared me. I stayed very still. I think I even held my breath, when again I heard the knocking and someone saying:

      “Manu, have you fallen asleep? We’re waiting for you to have dinner.”

      Those words brought me back to reality. Suddenly I saw my room, I was sitting on the bed, and I awkwardly said:

      “I’m coming now!” with a faltering voice.

      “Wake up sleepy! If you don’t,