Then I lived forever.

Cada minuto cuenta 1x2.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

Martín was an actuary. He calculated risks, premiums, and life expectancies with cold, flawless precision. For him, time was a spreadsheet—neat columns of minutes, each assigned a fixed value.

At first, it was a morbid joke. One minute of his remaining life was worth only half a normal minute? No—he realized it was the opposite. Every minute felt like two. Every breath, twice as loud. Every sunset, twice as vivid.

The next day, Lucía arrived with her son, Tomás, who was seven. Tomás wanted to build a Lego spaceship. Martín, who had never built anything without a manual, sat on the carpet. His left hand was already weak. Tomás handed him a red brick.