Chapter Four: This Is My Pain (#3)

As soon as the dismissal bell rang the next day, Tomás gathered his things and set off with a determined stride towards his new job: Big Root. He couldn't recall the exact day he had left his resume there—possibly a cloudy Tuesday, or perhaps one of those Fridays when he walked aimlessly through the city, pockets empty of hope and stomach full of doubts—but it mattered little. The truth was, he hadn't expected to return to a kitchen so soon. Not after everything that had happened at Santa Gracia.

More than once, since leaving that restaurant, he had told himself that finding another type of job would be best. Something in a factory, perhaps. Anything that didn't involve pots, pans, perfect cuts, and the constant sizzle of hot oil. Not because he disliked cooking—in fact, he liked it more than he admitted aloud—but because every kitchen he entered also carried the memories of Bella: her cheerful voice, the way she would call out to him unexpectedly amidst the hustle, her exaggerated laugh, that trembling embrace on their last day. There was something about her that still occupied space within him, like a melody that wouldn't leave no matter how many other songs were played over it.

Sometimes, against all better judgment, he found himself waiting for a message. Not a declaration, or an apology. Just a line, a simple question: "How are you?" But time passed. Weeks accumulated like dust on hope. And Bella didn't text. She didn't call.

So he arrived at the small corner where the establishment stood. Big Root had something nostalgic, rustic, and endearing about it. The sign with red letters on a white background was simple, but the smell escaping from the door was potent: freshly grilled meat, caramelized onion, freshly baked bread.

He entered. A waitress his age, with brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, approached him with a routine smile, mistaking him for a customer.

"For here or to go?"

"Uh... actually, I'm here about the job," he replied awkwardly.

The waitress blinked, as if coming back to herself.

"Oh, right! Just a moment."

Tomás stood by the entrance, observing the details of the place: the slightly worn wooden tables, the counter with sauce dispensers at one end, a couple of families eating in silence. It was still early, but the comings and goings in the kitchen hinted at the fast pace that awaited them for the night.

Only a few minutes passed before a woman, probably in her thirties, slender, with determined steps and a serious face, emerged from the kitchen door. She wore a black shirt with the restaurant's logo embroidered on the chest.

"Tomás, right?"

"Yes," he replied, standing up instantly.

"Perfect, come with me."

He followed her through the dining area, passing in front of the kitchen. Behind the steel counter, a robust man with receding hairline and bushy eyebrows worked with an almost reverent concentration. He chopped onions as if composing a musical score.

"That's my father," the woman commented as they walked. "Don Giorgio. He started this restaurant when I was a kid, with a cart at the train station. Everything I know, I learned from him. But now he wants to rest a bit. That's why I'm here, trying to make this work... and keep it from falling apart in the process."

They entered a small office just opposite the changing rooms. A desk full of papers, stacked boxes, a small whiteboard with half-erased notes. The woman gestured for him to sit.

"I'm Laura," she said, pulling some documents from a drawer. "I'm the manager, the master's daughter, the delivery driver's sister, and the waitress's cousin. In short, if we don't see ourselves as family, this won't move forward."

"I see..." Tomás murmured, leafing through the contract she placed before him.

"It's not a full-time contract, for now. We're just taking off with home delivery and can't pay more. But if this keeps growing... there will be room for everyone," she said with a mix of tiredness and pride that didn't go unnoticed.

Tomás nodded slightly. He had already read the entire contract.

"It's fine for me. I'm ready to start whenever you want."

Laura's eyes lit up for an instant. She nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Your uniform is in the open locker, you can change. Today will just be an adaptation day, nothing too demanding."

Tomás stood up, ready to begin, as she quickly returned to the kitchen.

The open locker contained a black T-shirt with the Big Root logo, an apron, and an embroidered cap. As he put them on, he felt different. Not better, not worse. Just different. As if he were putting on new skin, even knowing he hadn't fully healed the old one.

When he entered the kitchen, Don Giorgio turned to him for a second and gave a slight nod.

"Ready to get your hands dirty, kid?"

Tomás nodded.

"Always."

And even though the embers of the past still burned under his skin, he knew that this place—for now—would offer him something akin to a new beginning.

The Big Root kitchen was smaller than Tomás expected, but no less intense for it. As soon as he put on his apron and adjusted his cap, Laura guided him to the sink and pointed with a dry gesture at the pile of dishes overflowing with grease and remnants of bread and meat. There was no room for explanations; in that kitchen, the language was of gestures, fire, and steel.

Don Giorgio greeted him again with a slight nod and turned back to the steaming griddle, where a row of burgers sizzled relentlessly. The heat was overwhelming, the grease splattered, and the man, despite his obvious age, stood firm, like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. His apron was stained, his arms covered in small, old burns, but his movements were precise, constant, as if he had performed each one a thousand times.

Tomás began by washing plates, then trays, then knives. The hot water and the smell of detergent filled his senses, and for the first time in days, his mind was blank. It was strange, but he was grateful for it. The bustle of the kitchen was like a symphony of controlled chaos, with Laura entering and exiting the kitchen with her notepad, delivering orders on the run, and shouting instructions to the waiter and the delivery driver, her brother, who hurried with a thermal backpack strapped to his back.

Don Giorgio didn't say much, but every now and then he would utter brief phrases:

"Faster with those potatoes, kid."

"Careful with the onions, we don't want tears before time."

"The knife is cleaned like this, not like that."

Tomás watched him carefully. Not because he liked being ordered around, but because there was a discipline in that man born of necessity, not pride. Every action had a reason: flipping the meat at just the right time, placing the cheese at the precise moment, toasting the bun just so. There was poetry in his repetition, a kind of accumulated sadness among the flames and stainless steel.

When he finished with the most urgent dishes, Don Giorgio pointed to a bag of onions.

"Peel them, and slice them thinly. And fast, we're not painting a picture."

Tomás obeyed without a word. Tears stung his eyes before he finished the second one, but he continued. Then came the potatoes, then the fryer. The rhythm was incessant, the orders didn't stop. Orders came one after another: simple burgers, doubles, with bacon, without bun, with extra onion, to go, for table seven, for the motorcycle. Laura didn't rest for a second; her hair, tied in a braid, came undone as the hours passed, and her face, though young, began to show the deep fatigue of someone pulling a too-large boat with too thin a rope.

Don Giorgio didn't let him touch the griddle the entire shift. Not even when the waiter was delayed, nor when hands seemed to be short.

"Not yet," he simply said when Tomás offered to help. "Soon, but not today."

And Tomás understood. He didn't take it as a rejection. It was more like respect for the craft. One that, for Don Giorgio, could not be given lightly.

When the last order was dispatched and the kitchen began to quiet down, the silence was strange. Like the silence that remains after a storm. A long sigh escaped the old cook's lips. He took off his apron and left it on the counter.

"Good job, kid. Tomorrow I'll let you get closer to the griddle... if you earn it."

Tomás nodded, silently satisfied. His arms were numb, his feet sore, and the smell of onion clung to his clothes, but something in that hustle had given him back a piece of himself he thought he had lost.

He went to the changing room, took out his clothes, and slowly changed. The clock read past eleven. The place was already closed, but not completely silent. As he buttoned his shirt, he noticed that the office light was still on. The slightly ajar door allowed him to see Laura sitting at the desk, her head in her hands. She looked completely different from the confident and firm woman who had greeted him that afternoon.

He didn't go in. He didn't say anything. But he felt a knot in his chest. "She's carrying more than she lets on," he thought.

He turned to leave when he heard his name.

"Tomás."

He turned his head. Laura was standing in the doorway, her expression somewhat disheveled, as if she had just argued with the whole world.

"Can you come tomorrow too?"

He didn't hesitate to answer.

"Sure."

She nodded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She seemed about to say something more, but swallowed it.

"Thanks."

"See you tomorrow," Tomás said, and left.

He walked down the deserted sidewalk, the fresh air hitting his face, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about the rumors, or Bella, or Sofía. He only felt the slight tiredness in his muscles and the warmth of the kitchen still clinging to his clothes.

It wasn't a perfect place, or a brilliant job.

But it was a place. And in his life, that was already quite a lot.