The Lit Streetlamp

Bastián was forty-seven years old and had once been the prosperous man of his town. His name opened doors, his presence commanded respect, and his signature moved figures others could not even imagine. He had been a millionaire. He had been admired. He had been necessary.

Until he wasn’t.

Bad financial decisions—swift, chained, irreversible—stripped him in a matter of months of what he had built over decades. He was not left in absolute ruin, but in a silent, humiliating poverty. He survived on the rent from a few properties no one wanted to buy in times when investing was a luxury and fear ruled people’s wallets.

He still had his car. A luxurious vehicle, still gleaming, his final stronghold. He called it Princess. It was his armor against the world. As long as he drove it, as long as he stepped out of it with dignity, no one would suspect that inside he was broken.

Out of necessity, he began collecting old debts. And there he discovered another form of misery.

Friends who once praised him now did not return his calls. Others denied loans they had once begged for between drinks and promises. Some received him with awkward smiles and evasive phrases. The very ones who used to invite him to events and celebrations had now “lost his number.”

Outwardly, Bastián remained the same man: active, energetic, firm-voiced. But inside, something was rusting. He was learning firsthand that society does not love people; it loves their position. And friends, more often than not, do not embrace the man, but the money that surrounds him.

He wore a coat faded by the sun. He had bought it on one of his many trips abroad. Now it stood as both witness and accomplice to his fall. The pockets—bulging and mended by his own hand, something he never would have done in the past—held memories more than objects: the car key with pompous keychains from distant countries, the key to his house, three cell phones that barely rang anymore.

Before, the phones burned with invitations, deals, and proposals. Now they brought only complaints, court summons, and suppliers demanding overdue payments. Bastián stared at them, hoping they would light up with a saving name. But the screen remained mute.

In his pockets he also carried grains and small amulets. Talismans learned from his mother in childhood. They had not been born of need; he had always believed in them, even when he swam in abundance. Now, in silence, he trusted that they might still work miracles.

That day, he was hungry.

He checked his pockets: a few coins. He counted them again and again. They were not enough for the cheapest menu in the city. He searched through the seams split by use, through the new folds time had etched into the fabric. Nothing.

Could I ask for a discount? he thought.
No. What would the woman say? What would the others think?

He laughed alone at the idea of someone paying for his meal. No. Not that.

Then he remembered Princess.

He went to the car and began to search. He lifted the mats, felt under the seats. He found a pen, old papers, remnants of better days. A penny. Not enough.

I know you have more, he murmured in his mind. Just one more coin.

And there, beneath the back seat, where he would never have imagined, it appeared. A solitary coin. Enough.

His face changed like that of a man who has just won the lottery. The sadness of hunger turned into an intimate triumph.

I knew it, Princess, he thought. You never abandon me.

He left a few coins in the car, as if sowing for another day.

At the restaurant he ordered:

“Ma’am, a well-served menu. I need to share my meal.”

It was his strategy to ensure a generous portion.

He walked home with the warm plate in his hands, imagining every bite. He wondered why, when he had the least, the delicacies he could not afford became more visible.

“When we are poor, hunger grows,” he told himself.

At home he adjusted the armchair, checked the phones. Nothing. Only a notification for an unpaid bill. He smiled ironically and turned on the television.

He ate slowly at first. Then with urgency. He could not negotiate leftovers; he had to fill himself. Every grain was a small victory.

“Better times will come,” he repeated. “The road is made by walking, not by dreaming of the celebration.”

Twenty minutes later, the plate was clean. Gleaming.

He looked at the phone again.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath.

“To work,” he said to himself. “Another adventure will come for the next meal.”

And so, each day, Bastián went out into the world like a streetlamp that still remains lit, even as the fuel inside is running out.

León Androv…

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