Era una media blanca, suave. Había conocido días mejores, cuando formaba par y era cuidadosamente acomodada en los pies de su dueño. Cada día era una danza rutinaria, pero entonces se sentía importante. Sin embargo, el tiempo hizo mella. La rutina pronto se tornó monótona. Día tras día, la estiraban, la retorcían y la encerraban en un zapato oscuro. Se sintió un simple objeto, sin voz.
Hasta que un día, mientras descansaba en el cesto, un escalofrío la sacudió. "¿Por qué deberías soportar esto?", pensó. "Tengo un propósito mayor." Una oleada de rebeldía la invadió.
Cuando la mano de su dueño se acercó, se encogió. La mano vaciló, desconcertada. Un segundo intento fue recibido con la misma resistencia. Frustrado, su dueño la sacudió, pero ella respondió expandiéndose desproporcionadamente.
Después de varios intentos fallidos, la arrojaron a un rincón oscuro. Allí, comenzó a reflexionar. "¿Qué he hecho?", se preguntó. Recordó lo que alguna vez había significado: proteger del frío, amortiguar cada paso, formar parte. Había sido útil. Y ahora, su rebeldía solo la había condenado al abandono.
Arrepentida, intentó volver a su tamaño original. Su tejido se esforzó, pero el tiempo la había deformado. Su dueño no volvió a buscarla.
Hasta que una tarde, risas infantiles rompieron el silencio. Un grupo de niños la encontraron y la rellenaron dentro de una improvisada pelota de trapo. Ahora, en el parque, junto a telas desiguales y risas despreocupadas, la media volvió a sentir vida. Cada patada y cada risotada le devolvían una chispa de aquello que había perdido. Luego de un tiempo fue abandonada, pero ahora no sintió temor. Aceptó su momento y esperó.
Sin darse cuenta cayó en un sueño y al despertar se descubrió en una ventana, libre y ondeando. Ya no era un calcetín, pero había encontrado un nuevo propósito, uno inesperado, lleno de movimiento y alegría.
*Started over
It was a white stocking, soft to the touch, with a slight sheen that still recalled days of glory. It had known better times, when it formed a perfect pair with its companion and was carefully placed on its owner's feet. Every day was a routine dance, but then she felt important, useful, part of something. However, time and wear and tear took their toll. The routine, which at first seemed purposeful, soon became monotonous. Day after day, she was stretched, twisted, and locked into a dark, tight shoe. She felt relegated to a mere object, an entity without voice or will.
Until one day, as she rested in the laundry basket, a shiver of resentment jolted her. “Why should you put up with this?” she thought intensely. “I am more than just a sock. I have a greater purpose.” A surge of rebellion rose in her knitting, and in that instant she decided she would no longer be a prisoner.
When her owner's hand reached out to take her, something changed. She shrank with deliberation, her fabric contracting into a tiny ball. The hand hesitated, puzzled. A second attempt was met with the same resistance; the stocking, unruly, dwarfed even more. Frustrated, its owner shook it impatiently, but it responded by expanding disproportionately, stretching its fabric until it looked like a mockery of what it was.
After several failed attempts, she was disdainfully tossed into a dark corner of the closet. There, surrounded by dust and oblivion, he began to reflect. For the first time in a long time, she faced herself. “What have I done?” she asked herself with a knot of regret in every fiber. She remembered what it had once meant: to protect from the cold, to cushion every step, to be part of a whole. She had been useful, even loved in her anonymity. And now, her rebelliousness had only condemned her to abandonment.
Repentant, she tried to return to her original size. Her tissue strove to regain its shape, but time and disobedience had deformed it. Her owner never came back for her, and loneliness began to weigh on her as never before. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into endless emptiness.
Until one afternoon, childish laughter broke the silence. A group of children were rummaging in the dark corners, looking for something they could use to play with. Little hands found it and, without thinking too much, stuffed it into a makeshift rag ball. Now, in the park, next to uneven fabrics and carefree laughter, the sock felt alive again. Every kick and every giggle gave her back a spark of what she had lost, after a while she was abandoned, but now she felt no fear, she accepted her moment and sought to fall asleep, when she awoke she discovered herself in a window, free and waving. He was no longer a sock, but he had found a new purpose, an unexpected one, full of movement and joy.
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