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<\/p>\nThe sky was covered with gray clouds, the kind that herald a storm even when the wind seems still. It was a heavy, silent afternoon, almost foreshadowing that something terrible was about to happen. The road that connected San Aurelio with Santa Marta had always been quiet, surrounded by vegetation and dangerous curves that at first glance seemed harmless\u2026 until they weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At that hour, many were returning home after a long day of work, hurried by exhaustion and eager to see their families. Among them was Don Esteban , behind the wheel of his small red pickup truck. He was 52 years old, with two children waiting for him for dinner and a wife who always left the porch light on to welcome him. He had been driving that road for years, trusting that routine would protect him.<\/p>\n
But routine is treacherous.<\/p>\n
That day, as I rounded the curve at kilometer 14, a loud crash shattered the silence.
\nOne second before, the road had been just a road.
\nOne second later, it was chaos.<\/p>\n
A vehicle traveling in the opposite direction\u2014at high speed, according to witnesses\u2014lost control on the wet curve, skidded violently, and crashed head-on into Don Esteban\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my God\u2026 someone call emergency services!\u201d one of the young men shouted, his voice breaking.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cCalm down, sir\u2026 help is coming. Don\u2019t fall asleep\u2026\u201d the man whispered, holding his hand even though it was trembling.<\/p>\n
Don Esteban tried to speak. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
\nPerhaps he said the name of one of his children.
\nPerhaps he said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d
\nPerhaps he said, \u201cI don\u2019t want to leave.\u201d
\nNo one will know for sure.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
The road fell silent. Those present felt the air grow heavier, as if tragedy had befallen them all equally.
\nThe sun hid behind the clouds, and a gentle breeze began to blow, as if nature itself were weeping alongside them.<\/p>\n
At Don Esteban\u2019s house, the porch light was still on.
\nHis children sat waiting at the table, wondering why their father was taking longer than usual.
\nHis wife glanced at the clock, unaware that at that very moment, the road, the rain, and fate had decided to change their lives forever.<\/p>\n
Because an accident doesn\u2019t last a minute.
\nAn accident lasts a lifetime for those who lose someone.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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