By Rosy Acosta
Ezekiel had always felt that he wasn't alone, even when there was no one else in the room. For as long as he could remember, a presence had been with him—a version of himself that never left his side: the other Ezekiel. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he could have sworn he saw him there, in the reflection—not exactly like him, but enough to know that he was always nearby.
As the years went by, the feeling of having a double grew stronger. He often heard whispers, complaints, and heavy breathing beside him, especially on nights when the silence of the house seemed to suffocate him. “The other Ezequiel” was a constant and familiar presence. He had learned to live with him, to listen to him, and to cope with his presence, like someone who learns to walk with a shadow.
As he grew old, Ezequiel felt more exhausted than ever. As time went on, his health declined, and everyone knew his end was near. But what troubled him most was not the death he saw coming, but the sudden absence of the other Ezequiel. For weeks, he hadn’t heard him, hadn’t felt his presence. That constant moaning, that breathing at the far end of the room, had faded away.
One day, as he lay in bed, Ezequiel looked at me with eyes full of pent-up rage. “I’m angry,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I didn’t go to Ezequiel’s funeral.”
I looked at him in surprise, trying to figure out what he meant. “How do you know he died?” I asked him.
“It’s just that I can’t hear him anymore,” she replied, squinting as if searching for something in the empty room. “He’s not moaning anymore. He’s not breathing anymore.”
At that moment, I realized that the other Ezequiel—that presence that had accompanied him his entire life—was nothing more than a reflection of his own consciousness. And now, in his final days, that reflection, too, had come to an end.
Death was taking them both away.