But routine is treacherous.
That day, as I rounded the curve at kilometer 14, a loud crash shattered the silence.
One second before, the road had been just a road.
One second later, it was chaos.
A vehicle traveling in the opposite direction—at high speed, according to witnesses—lost control on the wet curve, skidded violently, and crashed head-on into Don Esteban’s pickup truck. The impact was so brutal that his small vehicle split in two, as if it were made of paper, scattering pieces all over the road. The metallic clang echoed through the air, followed by a blood-curdling silence.
The first to arrive were motorcyclists passing by. Upon seeing the scene, they stood motionless for a few seconds, unable to believe what they were seeing. Pieces of the engine, clothing, glass, and unrecognizable fragments were scattered all over the asphalt. The strong smell of fuel began to permeate everything.
“Oh my God… someone call emergency services!” one of the young men shouted, his voice breaking.
They approached cautiously. Among the twisted wreckage of what had been the rear of the vehicle, they found signs none of them wanted to see. The force of the impact had been so severe that the road resembled a mural of tragedy.
A tall man, who had witnessed the accident from afar, quickly approached the side of the pickup truck, still wedged against the ravine. Inside, trapped among the twisted metal, was Don Esteban. His eyes were half-open, his breathing labored, as if his soul were fighting against the pain, struggling to remain attached to his body.
“Calm down, sir… help is coming. Don’t fall asleep…” the man whispered, holding his hand even though it was trembling.
Don Esteban tried to speak. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Perhaps he said the name of one of his children.
Perhaps he said, “I’m sorry.”
Perhaps he said, “I don’t want to leave.”
No one will know for sure.
The minutes dragged on. The ambulance was slow, as it always is when you need it most. Neighbors arrived, some weeping, others praying silently. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, but by the time the paramedics finally pulled him from the vehicle, it was too late.
The road fell silent. Those present felt the air grow heavier, as if tragedy had befallen them all equally.
The sun hid behind the clouds, and a gentle breeze began to blow, as if nature itself were weeping alongside them.
At Don Esteban’s house, the porch light was still on.
His children sat waiting at the table, wondering why their father was taking longer than usual.
His wife glanced at the clock, unaware that at that very moment, the road, the rain, and fate had decided to change their lives forever.
Because an accident doesn’t last a minute.
An accident lasts a lifetime for those who lose someone.
