I knew the scream was coming from one of the four doors in front of me, so I instinctively approached the iron railing and looked down, trying to find another way to get out of where I was. What my eyes found was that on the next level down was the dining room, perfectly lit by an antique chandelier. There was a very long table with baskets of freshly baked bread and several cups filled with hot chocolate. It also had 12 chairs where 12 young people were sitting.
I continued to daydream about the adventures that I could experience when exploring the surroundings of the river, when the bus stopped abruptly pushing me forward while my head hit the back of the seat in front of me. My sister laughed at me and then said, “Good thing you woke up with a blow that happens to you because you are vomiting every time we travel.” Then she began to walk towards the exit of the bus, carrying my niece in her arms and I was walking behind her, because we had reached where we needed to get off.
I have been asked several times, If what I write, are real stories or fiction? And in response to the question “I just smiled.” Then I let them define whether it is a yes or a no, if they want to believe what they are reading so immediately I ask: What do you feel as you read? Is it a real emotion or a product of your imagination? By reacting this way, I do not intend to be rude or pretentious about my stories, the truth is that if I give a concrete answer, “They would not believe it is possible to see how reality can become fantasy and they would doubt how fantasy can exceed the limits allowed by the truth, to become real facts through my lifetime”.