The world seemed to return to Lysandra in slow, distant waves. The roar of the obsidian jaguar still reverberated in the confines of her mind, and the feeling of ancestral power continued to vibrate in her hands, even through the cotton gloves. She was so immersed in the maelstrom of sensations and visions that she had lost all sense of time, of space, of the worried and fascinated figure of Sofía Cabrera at her side.
It was Sofía's soft but firm voice that finally anchored her back to the reality of the workroom. "Lysandra," she said, almost regretful for interrupting what was clearly a profound experience. "Lysandra, it's almost seven. Security personnel have already made two rounds. We must close."
Lysandra blinked, her violet eyes struggling to refocus, to abandon the interior landscape of pyramids under starry skies and arcane rituals. She glanced at the clock on the wall: almost three hours! They had passed like a breath, like an instant suspended outside of linear time. She felt exhausted, but also strangely invigorated, as if a high-frequency but low-intensity electric current had run through her, leaving her charged with an alien, ancient, and deeply mysterious energy. It was a sensation both unsettling and strangely familiar, as if something inside her, something long dormant, had recognized an echo of itself in those relics.
She nodded slowly, still a little dazed. "Yes, of course. Sorry, Sofia. These pieces… they are extraordinary." Her voice sounded deeper than usual, with a new, resonant timbre.
"They are," Sofia agreed, her brown eyes shining with the excitement of having witnessed Lysandra's unique connection with the artifacts. "And the way you interact with them… I've never seen anything like it. What did you… feel?"
Lysandra hesitated. How to explain the fusion of energies, the visions, the feeling that the small stone jaguar was, somehow, alive and conscious? "There's a lot here," she said finally, choosing her words carefully. "More than meets the eye. I'll need more time, a closer analysis. There are layers of history, of intention… of power."
"Of course," Sofia agreed promptly. "Whenever you want. Next week, perhaps. We can reserve the lab for you alone, without interruptions."
"Perfect. I'll coordinate with you," Lysandra said, beginning to remove her gloves as leisurely as she had put them on. Her hands, now bare, seemed to almost glow in the artificial light of the room, as if they retained a residual luminescence from the energy they had channeled.
They said goodbye at the museum entrance, under a Cancún sky already tinged with a deep indigo flecked with the first stars. The night air was warm and humid, laden with the salty Caribbean breeze. As she climbed into the car, Lysandra felt strangely serene, despite the intensity of the experience. The energy that imbued her wasn't chaotic or threatening; it was… expectant.
The return drive inevitably took her through the throbbing heart of the Hotel Zone. It was Sunday night, but Spring Break season was in full swing, and the coastal strip was a hive of feverish activity. The neon lights of nightclubs and bars painted the night with garish colors, and music—reggaeton, electronic, pop—spilled from every open door, creating a vibrant and energetic cacophony. Groups of young tourists, tanned and exultant, crowded the sidewalks, their laughter and screams echoing in the air, their bodies moving with unbridled freedom to the beat, their faces lit up by the ephemeral joy of youth and vacation.
Lysandra watched the scene through the window with a new and curious ease. Before, such displays of uninhibited hedonism would have seemed alien, perhaps even a little vulgar, too stark a contrast to her own orderly and contained life. But tonight, charged as she was with that ancient and mysterious energy, and with the shadow of her dream still floating in her subconscious, she saw it differently.
She watched the couples kissing passionately in dark corners, the groups of friends dancing in circles with total devotion, the girls laughing out loud with their heads thrown back. She saw a thirst for life, an instinctive search for connection and sensorial enjoyment that she, in her relentless focus on her career, in her determination never to stray from her goals, in her need to protect herself from the onslaught of echoes from the world, had never allowed herself. Her path had made her different, an observer at life's banquet, a collector of others' emotions rather than an active participant in her own.
The anguish of sleep—that of dying without having loved with the intensity
of her parents—returned, but this time not with the same paralyzing sharpness. Now, it was tinged with a strange understanding, almost a compassion for this version of herself that had built such high walls. The contrast between the primal, ritualistic energy she had felt in the museum and the raw, vital energy of those unbridled young people was immense, and yet both were expressions of a life force, a longing.
The car left the epicenter of the bustle behind, heading toward the tranquility of her mansion. Lysandra leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes for a moment. The energy of the stone jaguar still subtly vibrated within her, a silent promise. Perhaps, just perhaps, the universe, through dreams, forgotten letters, and ancestral relics, was sending her a sign. And for the first time in a long time, a part of her wondered what would happen if, instead of just watching, she dared to dance to an unknown music.