Story: Manuel Losada | Illustration: Santipérez | Based on an idea by Luis M. Rosales

THE ISLAND WHERE THERE IS NO LIGHT

The file had been at the bottom of the municipal archive for years.

It was not confidential. Nor was it listed as missing. It simply remained unclassified. Every reorganization returned that folder to the same drawer.

Uxía found it while reviewing old incident reports for an audit.

She worked as a heritage technician. Her job was to verify that cataloged assets still existed, remained standing, and occupied the location indicated on the plans.

On the cover of the file, a single name appeared:

Cortegada.

Inside, there was no complete report. Only fragments: access requests without replies, handwritten notes without signatures, a pending inspection order.

At the end, a folded document, stained by salt spray:

“The person in charge moved to the island of their own volition.

No return is expected in the short term.”

There was no identity or job title.

Uxía requested additional information.

The response was vague.

—That goes back a long way —a colleague commented—. It’s always been that way.

Two days later, she was assigned the visit.

The instruction was simple: check the status of a property linked to historical screenings.

The boatman simply operated the motor. The trajectory avoided certain areas of the estuary.

—Aren’t we going to go around the island? —she asked.

—There are better routes —he replied.

Upon disembarking, she perceived a subtle change.

Sound arrived normally, but barely returned. Light penetrated between the trees without producing a glow. The ground maintained constant humidity, even far from the tide.

The building turned out to be smaller than expected. No plaques or signage. The door remained ajar.

Inside were film reels stored in wooden boxes, labeled with precise calligraphy. Notebooks with technical annotations and diagrams of the estuary traced from unusual perspectives. On a table, an old projector remained clean and connected.

It didn’t look abandoned.

Uxía called out.

The response was the faint echo of her own voice.

In the back room, she found a bed made with care. A dry plate placed next to the turned-off lamp.

And a mirror.

For a second, it reflected the empty room. Then the surface oscillated, as if the background were deeper than the frame indicated.

Uxía looked away.

The visit registered no formal incidents.

In the report, she noted: property stable, no structural risks, technical activity undocumented but operational.

The file returned to the drawer.

Since then, every year, when the festival dates approach, she receives an email with no sender.

Subject: Cortegada.

Text: “It is still operating.”

Uxía does not reply.

She simply archives it.