The next few weeks fell into a pattern that felt both productive and emotionally complicated. Aiko threw herself into her coursework at the Instituto with renewed energy, but her evenings and weekends were increasingly spent with Miguel Santos, who had become both her closest friend in Madrid and her most dedicated ally in searching for clues about the mysterious cyclist.
"Any luck with the Varela Foundation?" Miguel asked as they met for their usual Thursday evening walk through the Retiro Park. It had become their weekly tradition—a chance to decompress from intensive classes while Miguel helped her navigate the complexities of Spanish bureaucracy.
"They're being very polite but extremely unhelpful," Aiko replied, pulling out her phone to show him the latest email exchange. "They keep saying they can't provide information about specific program participants without written consent from the individuals involved."
"Which you can't get because you don't know their identities," Miguel observed, reading over the carefully worded rejection. "Classic bureaucratic circle."
"Exactly. But Miguel Ruiz had another suggestion." Aiko tucked her phone away as they settled onto a bench near the lake. "He thinks I should try attending some local cycling events. If any of the program participants are still active in Spanish cycling, someone might recognize my description."
"That's actually a brilliant idea. And I could help with that—my father's business connections include several cycling clubs here in Madrid. He could probably get us access to races and training sessions."
The casual way Miguel included himself in her search had become natural over the past month. What had started as friendly assistance had evolved into genuine partnership, with Miguel investing almost as much energy in finding answers as Aiko herself.
"You don't have to keep helping me with this," she said, though the offer filled her with gratitude. "You have your own studies to focus on."
"Are you kidding? This is the most interesting mystery I've ever been involved in. Besides," he paused, his expression growing more serious, "I like spending time with you, Aiko. Helping with your search gives me an excuse to do that without seeming too forward."
The admission hung between them, and Aiko felt her cheeks warming. Over the weeks of working together, she had become increasingly aware of Miguel's attractiveness—not just his physical appearance, but his intelligence, his kindness, his easy sense of humor. There had been moments when she'd caught him looking at her with an expression that suggested his feelings went beyond friendship.
"Miguel," she began carefully, "I hope you understand that right now, I can't think about... anything romantic. Until I find answers about this person from my past, I'm not in a position to explore new relationships."
"I understand," he said, though something in his voice suggested disappointment. "But I hope you also understand that helping you isn't conditional on anything happening between us. I genuinely want you to find what you're looking for."
As they walked through the park in comfortable silence, Aiko found herself studying Miguel's profile, comparing his features to her fragmented memories of the boy from the park. The bone structure was similar, the height seemed right, and there were moments when his gestures or expressions triggered flashes of recognition.
But the more time they spent together, the more inconsistencies she noticed. Miguel's accent was distinctly Madrileño, without the slight variations she thought she remembered. His hands, while gentle, didn't quite match her tactile memories of fingers working carefully through her hair. Most significantly, when she described specific details about the encounter—the approaching storm, the way the boy had sectioned her hair, his urgent phone conversation in Spanish—Miguel's reactions suggested polite interest rather than personal recognition.
"Miguel," she said as they approached the metro station, "can I ask you something directly?"
"Always."
"When I describe the boy who helped me, do any of those details feel familiar to you personally? Not just as someone helping me investigate, but as actual memories?"
Miguel stopped walking, studying her face with growing understanding. "You're wondering if I could be him, aren't you?"
"The thought has crossed my mind," Aiko admitted. "The timing, your family's cycling connections, your knowledge of hairstyling—there are similarities."
"Aiko," Miguel said gently, "I need to be completely honest with you. When you first described your encounter at the park, I wondered the same thing. I've been trying to remember if I could have forgotten such a significant moment, if there was any way I could be the person you're looking for."
"And?"
"And I'm not him. I've never been to Japan, never been part of an international cycling program. My father's business is domestic—he doesn't deal with international teams." Miguel's expression was kind but definitive. "I know how much you want to find this person, and I wish I could be him for you. But I can't lie about something that important."
The admission hit Aiko with unexpected force. She had been unconsciously building hope around Miguel's potential connection to her search, allowing herself to imagine that her quest might have a romantic resolution with someone she was already growing to care about.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to project my search onto you."
"Don't apologize. It's natural to look for connections, especially when you want something so badly." Miguel took her hand gently. "But Aiko, maybe this is actually good news."
"How could it be good news?"
"Because it means you can get to know me for who I actually am, rather than as a potential solution to your mystery. And it means that when you do find the person you're looking for, it will be because you found him, not because you convinced yourself someone else was him."
As they descended into the metro station, Aiko felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. Disappointed because she had been unconsciously hoping for a simple resolution to her search, relieved because Miguel's honesty had prevented her from building a relationship on false foundations.
"So where does this leave us?" she asked as they waited for the train.
"Wherever you want it to leave us," Miguel replied. "I'm still happy to help with your search, if you want that. And I'm still interested in getting to know you better, if you're open to that. But both of those things can be separate from your quest to find this cyclist."
The train arrived, and as they found seats, Aiko reflected on how much clearer everything felt now that the possibility of Miguel being her mysterious helper had been eliminated. He was a wonderful person in his own right—kind, intelligent, supportive—but he wasn't the answer to her search.
Which meant the real answer was still out there, waiting to be discovered.
"Thank you for being honest," she said as they neared her stop. "I know it would have been easier to let me keep wondering."
"Easier, maybe. But not fair to either of us."
As Aiko walked the final blocks to Carmen's apartment, she felt her resolve to continue the search strengthening rather than weakening. Miguel's honesty had reminded her that she was looking for something specific, someone specific. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted by wishful thinking or convenient connections.
The real Javier was somewhere in Spain, and she was going to find him.
But first, she needed to let go of false hopes and focus on actual clues. Tomorrow, she would redouble her efforts with the Varela Foundation and the cycling community. The truth was out there—she just had to be more systematic about discovering it.