It was the bleachers of midnight, that border territory where the day that ends sits down to converse with the day that begins. The air was cool and the concrete cold beneath them. They were under the same sky: the Father, the Son, and the Cousin—three generations united by blood and shared silence.

They talked about the two of them, the father and the son, while the cousin listened, serving as the family’s silent witness. They spoke of their small stories, of favors given and received during the week, of the ordinary texture of life.

Suddenly, the quiet rhythm of the night broke.

The son, whose gaze had been wandering through the heights perhaps looking for a shooting star, tensed up. His eyes widened, reflecting a light that shouldn't have been there at that hour.

— "Dad, look at the sky!" —he exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger toward the zenith.

The Father and the Cousin looked up immediately. Their breath caught in their throats.

It wasn't the usual darkness. At midnight, the sky had decided to reveal its hidden architecture. Lines of pulsing light intertwined, forming a sacred geometry—complex patterns that rotated and breathed above their heads, defying physics.

The son's first thought was of pure visual wonder: It looks like it’s made of fireworks, he thought, but without the roar—only pure, silent light weaving the universe.

For the Father, however, this was not just a light show. For him, it was a Sentimental Geometry. Seeing it triggered an instant nostalgia, like when you want to know the beginning of everything and, at the same time, painfully understand every inevitable ending. The immensity of what he saw made him feel the weight of human existence.

With a low voice, almost cracked by awe, the Father responded to the universe's silent question:

— "Could it be that there are others who have stopped living? Or has the weight of their stories ceased to exist, and this is their farewell?"

The silence that followed his questions was dense. The scale of what they were witnessing was overwhelming. The son, looking for a reference in his known world to measure the impossible, whispered after his father:

— "It looks as big as one of the tallest buildings I've ever seen... but made of stars."

The cousin could only nod, unable to articulate a word, a witness that this was real.

And just as the majestic Geometry of stars had formed, at the peak of its complexity, it began to dissolve. There was no explosion, only a soft fading, like a sigh of light returning to the darkness.

The sky became black once more. The bleachers returned to being just concrete.

They remained in silence for a long time. The apparition had left one or more questions floating in the cold air of the midnight bleachers; under that sky where the three had spoken and seen the impossible.

P.S. And so faded what some would call the tunnel of cosmic love, one of the greatest stories the night ever told, and one that only three people on those bleachers would remember.

It was the bleachers of midnight, that border territory where the day that ends sits down to converse with the day that begins. The air was cool and the concrete cold beneath them. They were under the same sky: the Father, the Son, and the Cousin—three generations united by blood and shared silence.

They talked about the two of them, the father and the son, while the cousin listened, serving as the family’s silent witness. They spoke of their small stories, of favors given and received during the week, of the ordinary texture of life.

Suddenly, the quiet rhythm of the night broke.

The son, whose gaze had been wandering through the heights perhaps looking for a shooting star, tensed up. His eyes widened, reflecting a light that shouldn't have been there at that hour.

— "Dad, look at the sky!" —he exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger toward the zenith.

The Father and the Cousin looked up immediately. Their breath caught in their throats.

It wasn't the usual darkness. At midnight, the sky had decided to reveal its hidden architecture. Lines of pulsing light intertwined, forming a sacred geometry—complex patterns that rotated and breathed above their heads, defying physics.

The son's first thought was of pure visual wonder: It looks like it’s made of fireworks, he thought, but without the roar—only pure, silent light weaving the universe.

For the Father, however, this was not just a light show. For him, it was a Sentimental Geometry. Seeing it triggered an instant nostalgia, like when you want to know the beginning of everything and, at the same time, painfully understand every inevitable ending. The immensity of what he saw made him feel the weight of human existence.

With a low voice, almost cracked by awe, the Father responded to the universe's silent question:

— "Could it be that there are others who have stopped living? Or has the weight of their stories ceased to exist, and this is their farewell?"

The silence that followed his questions was dense. The scale of what they were witnessing was overwhelming. The son, looking for a reference in his known world to measure the impossible, whispered after his father:

— "It looks as big as one of the tallest buildings I've ever seen... but made of stars."

The cousin could only nod, unable to articulate a word, a witness that this was real.

And just as the majestic Geometry of stars had formed, at the peak of its complexity, it began to dissolve. There was no explosion, only a soft fading, like a sigh of light returning to the darkness.

The sky became black once more. The bleachers returned to being just concrete.

They remained in silence for a long time. The apparition had left one or more questions floating in the cold air of the midnight bleachers; under that sky where the three had spoken and seen the impossible.

P.S. And so faded what some would call the tunnel of cosmic love, one of the greatest stories the night ever told, and one that only three people on those bleachers would remember.