Night had fallen like a heavy blanket over the city. From his window, Tomás could clearly see the small raindrops falling, the orange glow of the streetlights, and the silhouettes of the trees bared by winter. His phone rested on his desk, as if watching him, waiting for him to make up his mind.
He sighed. He picked it up. He dialed.
"Hello," he said when he heard the voice on the other end. "It's me."
On the other side, silence lasted barely a second. Just long enough for him to know she was expecting him.
"Hello, Tomás," Sofía replied, with that serene tone she used when trying to maintain composure. In the background, a faint sound: the clink of glass and a sip of wine. Something creaked, perhaps an old armchair giving way beneath her.
He cleared his throat. "I called because... I don't want you to think I didn't do anything," he began. "Sunny got out of control. I tried to stop her, really. But she just did it to defend me; I wouldn't want you to think badly of her, please."
Sofía didn't answer immediately. Only the faint murmur of her breathing was heard. When she spoke, it was in a low voice, as if she were talking to the wine or the night. "I know. I believe you. But that doesn't change things."
Tomás looked down. The ceiling of his room suddenly seemed very distant. "I didn't want to cause you more problems."
"And I don't want you to carry them," she said, with a hint of firm sweetness. "You shouldn't. I can't let you. You're a student, Tomás. You're a kid, even if you don't like to be told that. This isn't your burden."
He pressed his lips together, swallowing that bitter feeling of being fragile before her. He didn't like being seen as a child. But he liked even less feeling that he couldn't protect her.
"Sometimes it feels like no one else will do it for you," he whispered.
She laughed softly, a hollow laugh, without joy. "I've been alone for a long time. I know how to handle these kinds of things. I've carried worse. It will pass."
And for an instant, Tomás felt something he couldn't name. It wasn't admiration. It was something else. Something sadder. As if, instead of seeing her strong, he saw her tired.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she changed the subject with a practiced ease. "I'll have the corrections ready soon," she said. "The truth is, the manuscript has a strength that I find hard to describe. I think, if you manage to work on it calmly, it can be something really good."
Tomás smiled a little. Despite everything. "Thank you."
"Do you think your guardian can come tomorrow?" she then asked, as if she knew the answer was complicated.
He hesitated. He ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable. "I don't know," he confessed. "My mother and I... we're not at our best right now. We barely talk. And if I tell her I have to see her because of this, most likely... honestly, I don't know."
"I understand," Sofía said. And this time, she did sound disappointed. Not by him. By the situation. By how unfair it was.
They remained silent for a moment. Neither wanted to hang up.
"Thanks for calling," she said at last.
"Thanks for answering."
"Rest, Tomás."
"You too."
The call ended, but the feeling of having heard each other remained floating between them, like an invisible bond. It didn't solve anything. But it helped them carry on.
And that night, while the wine oxidized in Sofía's glass and Tomás knew that talking to his mother would be another headache.
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Tomás was in the kitchen preparing dinner, as he did every night. He chopped vegetables with the mechanical attention of someone seeking to calm their nerves through routine. His mother must be arriving soon. It was always the same: that hour between the end of the day and her arrival, filled with a dense tension that seeped into every corner of the house.
If only there was a way to recover lost time, he thought, leaning with both hands on the counter. The dim light from the extractor fan was the only one illuminating him, casting long shadows over his arms. The kitchen seemed like a stage where he performed for no one.
When he finished setting the table, he heard the door open. Then, the dry sound of an umbrella hitting the frame and the echo of firm, determined footsteps. Amelie's unmistakable stride.
She crossed the dining room threshold like an apparition. Her black hair, drenched from the rain, seemed even darker under the dim light, as if blending with the shadows surrounding her.
"Dinner's almost ready," Tomás said, not looking directly at her, trying to keep his voice steady.
They hadn't spoken with true sincerity for months. Perhaps years. Their last conversation had ended badly, like almost all of them. Tomás had never found the courage to truly apologize. And she... she had never shown the slightest desire to get closer. Ten years of growing distances, of silences turned into walls.
They looked at each other. Just a few seconds. But they carried so much, said so much without saying anything, that it hurt to hold their gaze.
"I'll go wash my hands first," Amelie said dryly, and left the dining room without another word.
When she returned, the food was already served. Soft steam rose from the plate: golden meat, perfectly cooked vegetables, crispy buttered potatoes. It wasn't a feast, nor particularly sophisticated, but it had been made with care. For her.
They ate in silence for long minutes. Only the clinking of cutlery occasionally broke the funereal atmosphere that settled whenever they were alone. Despite everything, seeing his mother finish almost the entire plate brought a warm echo to his chest. A fleeting image from when he was a child and she cooked for him. When family still meant something different. And, unable to help it, he smiled.
Amelie looked up. She noticed. "What are you laughing about?" she asked, her tone more inquisitive than curious.
Tomás looked down, somewhat embarrassed. "It made me remember the first time we saw each other. After you came back."
A shadow briefly crossed Amelie's face. It wasn't an abrupt change, but a subtle, almost imperceptible nuance. But Tomás noticed it. Because he knew her. More than she wanted to admit.
"Do you want to ruin my dinner?" she said in a dry, almost cutting tone.
A shiver ran through his body. The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by an uncomfortable expression.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Amelie finished her meal quickly, without saying another word. Then she stood up, took her plate with an indecisive gesture, finally left it there, as if she didn't have the strength to carry it to the dishwasher, and left. The sound of her footsteps going up the stairs echoed louder than necessary.
Hardly had that echo faded when the front door opened again. Daniela had just arrived.
"How lucky!" she exclaimed, as she left her umbrella by the entrance and hastily hung up her coat. She crossed the hallway, turning on the dining room light. "Don't you think it was a bit dark?"
Tomás turned to her, his expression more relaxed. "The food's still hot. Do you want me to serve you?"
"Of course. I love having a kind-hearted cousin who waits for me with hot food," she laughed shamelessly as she slumped into the chair.
Her eyes scanned the table and stopped at Amelie's empty plate. "Aunt ate everything? I don't believe it."
As he served her, Tomás smiled with a certain contained satisfaction. "I told you."
Daniela glanced at him, with an arched eyebrow. "Sure, sure," she conceded, not wanting to argue.
Her smile, as restless as ever, was enough to dissipate some of the knot in Tomás's chest. They ate together while talking about trivial things: the rain, an unbearable classmate, an absurd anecdote on public transport.
And although the air was still thick, although his mother's unspoken words still floated in the corners, for that moment—at least for that moment—the darkness seemed to recede. As if a little light, and a voice that didn't judge him, were enough to breathe again. At least, he thought, he had given her a small gesture, or so he preferred to believe, and because of that, he didn't want to tell her that she was summoned by the inspector for the next day; he didn't want to ruin the moment.
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The kitchen clock read six thirteen. Outside, the evening light began to gild the dining room curtains, tinting the table with warm tones. Tomás, barely seven years old, sat alone in front of a sheet of paper. He was drawing with colored pencils, his brow slightly furrowed. In his notebook, a forest stretched out in green and brown strokes, and among the trees, a figure in a long dress appeared, halfway drawn, still without a face. He always left the face for last.
He was so concentrated that he didn't hear the door open. He only looked up when he felt footsteps, and then he saw his father, entering the dining room with a woman he had never seen before.
"Tomás," his father said in a kind voice, as if trying to make everything sound natural, "I want you to meet someone very special. She is Amelie... and she will be my wife very soon. That means she will also be your new mom."
Amelie was twenty-two, her black hair pulled back in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. She wore a light coat and smiled with a warmth that seemed to defy the winter weather.
Tomás looked at her without moving. He didn't know what to say. The red pencil in his hand fell onto the table.
Amelie took a step towards him, gently, as if approaching a fragile creature that could break with the slightest rough movement. She knelt in front of him and took his hands with extreme delicacy.
"Hello, Tomás," she said. "I know this might seem strange to you... and I'm not going to ask you to love me right away. I just want you to know that I'm not here to replace your mom. Never. But I would love for you to give me a chance... to love you in my own way. And that, if you want, we can be happy together."
Tomás looked at her in silence. His expression was difficult for such a young child to read. He wasn't angry, nor exactly sad, but there was something tense in his gaze. As if he didn't know where to put everything he felt.
"Is it okay if we have dinner together?" she asked, with a slightly shy smile.
He barely nodded. He said nothing, but he also didn't pull away when she stood up and went to the kitchen. His father watched them from the doorway, in silence, and then excused himself to make a call, giving them space.
Amelie took off her coat, left it on a chair, and began to check what was in the refrigerator. She didn't seem very sure what to do, but she was determined to prepare something simple: rice, a little sautéed chicken, and a sauce that tried to imitate a homemade recipe.
Tomás watched her from the dining room. He had returned to his drawing, but he couldn't concentrate. Seeing her there, standing in the kitchen, clumsy but determined, brought back a memory so vivid it hurt: his mother, with her back to him, humming while she cooked. The sound of the knife on the cutting board. The steam from the rice. The smell of melted butter.
And then, unable to help it, tears began to fall. Silently. He made no sound. He just lowered his head, the pencil fell from his hand, and he covered his eyes.
Amelie noticed immediately. She ran to him and knelt beside him, saying nothing at first. She hugged him gently, wrapping both arms around him. Tomás didn't push her away. He cried against her shoulder, with that heartbreaking cry that only a child who has lost something irreplaceable can feel.
"It's okay to cry," Amelie whispered, her voice trembling. "You don't have to be strong for me. I'm here... just to be with you."
There were no impossible promises, no empty words. Just that hug. Long, sincere, full of something that couldn't be expressed in words. There, in that corner of the dining room, under the warm light of dusk, began a story marked by wounds, but also by the desire to heal.