Chapter Four: This Is My Pain (#5)

When he arrived at Big Root the next day, the first thing he noticed were the lights on in every corner of the place. Through the large windows, the image was clear: the restaurant was packed. Families, couples, people eating standing at the bar; the bustle was constant, mixed with the sizzle of the griddle and the crisscrossing voices from the kitchen.

He didn't linger. He entered through the back door, crossing the narrow hallway that led to the changing room, quickly changed, and punched in. As he adjusted his apron, he glanced towards Laura's office. The door was open, but empty. He didn't find her there. Instead, as he passed through the kitchen and peeked into the dining area, he saw her navigating the tables with a tray, serving customers alongside her cousin. She moved quickly and precisely, but fatigue was beginning to seep into her movements. The stress, however, didn't make her less firm; rather, it gave her an air of stubborn resilience.

Tomás took a deep breath. He knew he was about to step back into the trenches.

"Good thing you're here, kid!" Don Giorgio's cavernous voice roared as soon as he crossed the kitchen. His presence was as imposing as ever, a bastion in front of the griddle, his apron splattered and his forehead beaded with sweat.

With a flick of his spatula, he pointed to the sink, which was overflowing with dishes.

"Start with that. Then peel the potatoes. Remember, a burger without fries is like a chef without a kitchen."

Tomás set to work without complaint. The day was, against all expectations, even more chaotic than the last. Don Giorgio conducted the orchestra like a veteran general: fast, direct, precise. The orders were ceaseless. Between peeling potatoes, chopping onions, frying, washing lettuce, and always keeping an ear open for the next order, Tomás barely had time to breathe. But within all that chaos, a part of him—one he hadn't felt in a long time—was alive.

When Laura finally pulled down the restaurant's blind, signaling that service was over, Tomás noticed his hands trembling from the effort. Beside him, Don Giorgio was still cleaning the griddle with the same energy as he had at the beginning.

"What's wrong, kid?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Already want to quit?"

Tomás smiled, his face covered in sweat.

"No, not at all."

"Relax, I was just kidding," he tossed a set of keys to him casually. "Go to the back, the truck is parked. Unload it. I'll finish here."

Tomás nodded, wiped his hands, and headed to the dining area. He passed Laura's cousin, Alelí, who was slowly mopping, her body leaning more and more as if the mop were dragging her with it. He returned a brief smile. In the service hallway, just as he was about to exit through the back door, he ran head-on into Laura, who was carrying a box.

"Tomás? Just in time," she said, a little flustered.

He extended his hands to take the load from her.

"I can handle that. Let me."

"Leave it in my office," she replied, yielding without resistance.

Tomás obeyed. As he set down the box, he noticed a completely cold coffee cup on the desk and a paper with crossed-out expense notes. He returned to the hallway, and just outside, Laura had already opened the truck and was beginning to unload by herself.

"Leave that," Tomás said, approaching. "I'll do it."

Laura, with beads of sweat trickling down her temple, tried to protest.

"I'll help you, I can't let you do everything..."

"It's my job. Besides, you've been on your feet all day. Go rest, please," he said, with serene firmness.

For a moment, Laura's eyes lingered on his. There was a mix of exhaustion and something else in her expression, something harder to name. It wasn't gratitude. It was more like a slight surprise. As if no one ever told her that. As if she couldn't remember the last time someone cared for her, even a little.

Finally, she nodded.

"I'll leave it to you, then."

Unloading the small truck wasn't difficult for someone with Tomás's experience. And as he did it, he thought about the peculiarity of Big Root: it was a place where everyone seemed to be at their wit's end. A place born of family effort, of those inheritances received with more burden than joy. Don Giorgio seemed like a tired but unmoving pillar. Alelí was a whirlwind of fragile energy. And Laura... Laura was like a taut string that wouldn't allow itself to loosen a single knot.

He returned to the kitchen when he was done, helped with the remaining cleaning, and when the clock struck ten, he went to the changing room to change. As he left, just as he passed Laura's office, he noticed the door was ajar. She was inside, sitting at the desk with a calculator in one hand and the other in her loose hair, her eyes fixed on the ledger as if it were a maze with no exit.

He knocked softly.

"I'm leaving."

Laura looked up. She looked exhausted, but she smiled nervously.

"Oh... yes, of course. Tomás... I know it might be a lot to ask, but could you come tomorrow too?"

"Sure, no problem. But I have to leave town on Saturday, I won't be able to come that day."

"Okay... I'll see how I manage," she said with a weak smile. Her glassy eyes closed at times.

"Thanks... and... please rest."

"I'll try. See you tomorrow, Tomás."

When he turned to leave, Laura watched him from the dimness of the office. His slender figure blurred with the sound of the back door closing. For a second, she stared at the empty doorway. Then she lowered her gaze and, for some reason, managed a tired smile.

Outside, the wind slapped his face with winter's harshness. But Tomás walked calmly. For some reason, the warmth of the kitchen still stayed with him.

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The night wind seeped through the collar of his coat, but Tomás didn't bother to adjust it. He walked unhurriedly through the damp streets, hands in his pockets, his mind still buzzing from the hustle at Big Root. The persistent aroma of the hot griddle clung to his clothes, mixed with the sound of Alelí's laughter, Don Giorgio's grumbles, and Laura's slightly hoarse voice, which still resonated in his memory more than he'd like to admit.

He was deep in thought when his phone's buzz pulled him from his reverie. He looked at it unhurriedly. Sofía's name lit up the screen.

It surprised him. It was late. Not their usual time. He hesitated for a second before answering.

"Yes?" he said, his voice a little deeper than usual from the cold.

"Hello," she replied from the other end, in that tone of hers that seemed to measure every word, though this time it sounded softer, less controlled. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, nothing at all. I'm on my way home."

"Walking?"

"Yes."

"What if you disappear and never arrive?"

Tomás smiled.

"Then you'll be stuck with the incomplete manuscript corrections."

Sofía chuckled softly on the other end of the phone, as if she hadn't expected the conversation to flow so easily.

"You've been keeping your word, Tomás," she then said, more seriously. "At school, I mean. I suppose I should acknowledge that."

"You're not just calling to congratulate me, are you?"

There was a brief silence.

"No. I suppose not. It wouldn't be like... us, if it were that simple."

Tomás kept walking, listening to the faint sound of Sofía's breathing on the line, a few distant murmurs, perhaps from the street where she lived, and then the soft clinking of a glass. At this hour, he thought, she was probably holding a glass of wine. He imagined her almost empty apartment, lit by a dim lamp, just like the night he left without a sound.

"I wanted to hear your voice," Sofía finally admitted, in a tone that skirted the line between sincerity and modesty. "Don't ask me why, but I needed to."

Tomás swallowed gently.

"Thanks for calling me, then."

"Have you kept writing?"

"Yes," he replied with a sigh. "In fact, I rewrote the final chapter of the manuscript."

"Oh? What did you do?"

"Before, it was... darker. Very definitive. Now it's different, more uncertain. As if things don't always have to end in tragedy to hurt."

Sofía was silent for a moment, as if chewing on those words.

"Will you let me read it?"

"Sure. If you want, I can drop it off early on Sunday. I was planning to stop by the hospital to see the professor."

"I'll be there," she replied without hesitation. "You can leave it with me. But... promise me you didn't change the ending just to please me."

"I didn't. But you probably influenced it more than you're willing to accept," he said, with a slight smile that Sofía couldn't see, but felt.

"Silly," she murmured. Then she laughed, and her laugh was a little warmer, less burdened by that melancholic weariness she usually spoke with.

Tomás said nothing more. He waited. He didn't want to hang up yet.

"Tomás..." she then said. "I know that sometimes it seems like I don't know what I'm doing with you. And that's because I don't. But even so... don't stop writing. No matter what happens."

"I won't."

"And behave yourself," she added, with feigned severity.

Tomás laughed.

"I'm working on it."

"You're my student, remember?"

"Only when we're at school."

"Ah, what a rebel," Sofía joked.

"Good night, Professor."

"Good night, Tomás. Take care... and stop staring at me so much in class," she added just before hanging up.

He stopped under a streetlamp, looking at the overcast sky. He put his phone in his pocket with a faint smile. Though he didn't know it, her words relieved him more than he could express; her voice had brought him some warmth on that cold winter night.