Nuestra Lima of Perfection

The sun of Lima was not just a promise kept, it was a declaration of perfection. Every morning it rose, a golden disc in a sky of endless, immaculate blue, pouring down upon the city a light so warm, so mercilessly constant that it seemed to deny the very concept of change. It did not burn, did not blind—flawless, pitiless, like all of Lima.

The streets, paved with smooth, gleaming stone, curled between pastel colonial buildings, their facades touched by the invisible brush of some fevered painter, obsessed with harmony. A faint wind, a whisper really, slipped between the palms and ficus trees that jealously guarded the avenues, carrying the dense scent of jasmine and the distant murmur—almost a lament—of the Pacific waves.

Even the people seemed to embody this apathy perfected. Moving with an unnatural calm, their faces serene, emptied of worry, as if every care had been peeled away, leaving only the mask of inexorable tranquility. The markets, each day, animated themselves in ritualistic precision: stalls bursting with fruit so ripe they glowed, fish shimmering in the sunlight, textiles woven with designs so intricate they resembled spells. The same hands exchanging the same coins, the same voices braiding together in a ceaseless, lulling murmur.

I was there in Plaza Mayor, chewing on a butifarra while watching Lima’s perfect flow. I had arrived only days ago, drawn by the legend of a city made of dreams, and yet, from the first moment, something in that enchanted harmony had unsettled me. A subtle dissonance, a crack in the melody of perfection.

Then I saw it. A puddle.

Small, insignificant, yet for some reasons i did not catch at first, terribly out of place, right at the foot of the Fountain of Three Wishes. El agua magica de Lima. The water (in the puddle) was dark, still, reflecting that almost hostile blue sky, with white clouds like weak omens in a place where rain never fell, where even clouds were strangers.

I moved closer, compelled by an irresistible curiosity. I crouched and stretched a trembling hand toward the still water. And in that instant, a sound: a whisper, so faint, almost imperceptible, like the drip of a single drop from a remote abyss.

I searched around, desperate to find the source of the sound, but there was nothing—only the implacable sky, the burning sun, the murmuring wind. And yet, the sound persisted, insistent, hypnotic, like a fatal call.

Driven by an inescapable need, I followed it. Left the square, delving into the narrow, winding alleys of the historic center. With each step, the sound grew stronger, clearer, and a creeping sense of unease clamped around me like a vice: the facades of the buildings seemed to bend in whispered conversations, the shadows stretched into unsettling shapes, and the colors, once vibrant, drained away, swallowed by some lurking darkness.

I met an old woman, perched on the threshold of a door, her eyes vacant, lips moving in an inhuman silence. I asked her, voice unsteady, if she had heard the whisper of water. She stared at me for a moment that felt eternal, then a ghostly, chilling smile spread across her face.

"It never rains in Lima," she murmured, her voice raw and sharp. "But sometimes, when the city grows tired of its perfection, it weeps bitter tears."

"La garùa, mi niño"

Her words pierced me like blades. I kept walking, following the sound that had now morphed into a low, ominous rumble, a distant thunder heralding something dreadful. I arrived at a small, deserted square. At its center stood an ancient sundial, but its gnomon was frozen, suspended in a limbo outside of time.

I lifted my eyes to the sky, and then I saw it: the crack.

A thin, dark line slicing through the perfect blue like a festering wound, a fracture in a fabric where nothing should break. The crack widened slowly, revealing an abyss, deep and black, dotted with thousands of trembling lights, like the souls of the lost.

A violent dizziness overtook me; in that instant, I understood: Lima was not real. It was a construct, a cruel illusion, a golden prison designed to ensnare unwitting souls. And I, desperately, had fallen into its snare.

But what lay beyond the crack? What hid behind that frozen perfection? Curiosity, mingled with an engulfing fear, drove me past the edge of reason. I stepped toward the fissure, extended a shaking hand.

And in that moment.

The Reset.

I found myself, as if by enchantment, back at the café in Plaza Mayor. The sun gleamed in the immutable sky, people strolled obliviously, the wind carried the intoxicating scent of jasmine. Everything was exactly as before.

I had forgotten everything: the puddle, the crack, the truth. Lima was perfect again, and I, damned, was still trapped in its illusion. Yet deep within me, a shadow lingered, a doubt, a vague memory, something gnawing at me with savage intensity.

The Escape.

I stepped through the crack and found myself in an identical Lima, mirrored and merciless. The same streets, the same buildings, the same blazing sun. But there was no one. Solitude wrapped around me like a cold, unshakable embrace: freedom had the bitter taste of unbearable isolation.

I wandered through the empty avenues, frantically searching for a sign of life, a clue, a way out, but I found only silence, deafening and cruel. Lima had become a ghost town, a cursed monument to the void of perfection.

The Paradox.

As my fingers grazed the crack, I felt my body dissolving, merging with the sky, the sun, the wind. My consciousness expanded, stretching into the very essence of the city. I was Lima: the embodiment of perfection, of stillness, of the eternal present.

But in that total fusion, beyond the intoxicating unity, I felt the agony, the desperate suffering, the torment of all the souls trapped in this illusion. And then I understood: perfection was a prison, a condemnation to immobility and cyclical repetition.

As my essence unraveled, I saw, in the distance, a lone figure—a man walking through Lima’s deserted streets, staring at a puddle with terror and awe.

It was me. Again, trapped at the start of an infernal cycle.

The Last Level (or is it?)

But there was still one last level. Beyond the crack, beyond Lima’s gilded sky, lay other cities. Infinite cities, each trapped in its own immutable perfection, each a prison onto itself. A universe of Limas (or were they?) layered in an endless cycle of repetition, suffering, and despair (was it?)

And in every city, in every square, in every obscure corner, there was a puddle. And in every puddle, a reflection. Not mine.

Someone was watching me from afar. Someone who laughed, or maybe cried, or maybe both, in an endless torment.

And then I knew: escaping Lima was not the end, but only the beginning of an infinite journey through the desperate illusions of the universe, a path in search of truth, of freedom, of myself.

As my consciousness dissolved into the abyss, one unbearable question pounded in my skull: who was the real prisoner? Me, caught in this eternal cycle of resets, escapes, and paradoxes, or the one watching, condemned to witness my futile attempts at liberation for eternity?

And Lima began again. Again, and again, and again. And again, and again, and again.