Have you ever found something that perhaps would have been better left unfound?
The Wind asked the last column.
The Wind, that's what they call Marcos, the beggar.
Marcos was never poor, but one day he decided to leave home and never return.
No one knows how, but despite being homeless, he always walks clean. His clothes, already worn by time—and this is why they call him that—remain spotless.
He wears a black linen suit, a white shirt, and matching black shoes. Everything together harmonizes the slim figure of a luminous being whose gray hair projects a certain age that it's better not to ask. His smile, the best ally of his beard, which he himself calls The Column.
Everyone in town creates stories about the causes of his homelessness, his name, his beard, the actions he repeats daily. No one helps him, and they continue talking behind his back.
The curious thing is that of all of them, no one utters a single letter when he performs his ritual.
No one can say a single letter at that moment, because the city stops to applaud at his feet.