Chapter Five: Here I Am, Wounded (#3)

That Saturday, the gray sky hung over the city like a damp sheet, and the cold bit to the bone. Tomás arrived at Big Root just minutes before orders began, nodded quickly to Alelí, who was mopping the entrance, and headed straight to the kitchen.

Don Giorgio was already there, as always. But something was different. He was sitting on one of the stools by the counter, without his apron, without that fierce energy with which he usually faced each day.

"Good morning, kid," he said in a husky voice. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hands trembled slightly as he held a coffee cup.

"Everything alright, Don Giorgio?"

"Yes, yes..." he waved a hand as if shooing an invisible fly. "I'm just a bit tired. Yesterday I had to stay late organizing the storage room. These knees aren't what they used to be."

Tomás approached cautiously. In all the months he had been working there, he had never seen him like this. Giorgio was the kind of person who did everything without asking for help, who could handle four pans at once without messing up his hair.

"Do you want me to cover for you for a bit?"

Don Giorgio looked at him. It was a long, measured gaze. Then he nodded slowly.

"You're in charge today. The whole kitchen," he said bluntly. "If the world falls apart, you improvise. If the meat is late, you use the reserve loin. If there's trouble with the oven, you turn it off and do it in the pan. Understood?"

Tomás blinked, surprised.

"Are you sure?"

"I've seen you work, don't make me regret it. Just don't burn anything you shouldn't," and he gave a slight, but sincere smile.

He put on his apron with steady hands, though his nerves buzzed inside. As soon as the shift began, orders started pouring in like rain. Alelí went in and out with orders, the kitchen bell didn't stop, and the griddle spewed steam like a speeding train.

Tomás moved from side to side: flipping burgers, turning the fryer, knife on the bread. His face was beaded with sweat and his arms tense, his voice firm when giving instructions to Alelí who rushed her orders, although it was the first time he had to lead.

For a moment, as he sautéed some onions and prepared the base of a new sauce, he understood. He understood what Don Giorgio's hardened silence meant every night. He understood the effort it took to keep it all going: every tray, every satisfied customer, every full day was a small victory against exhaustion and routine.

At two in the afternoon, Laura entered through the back door and found him in full swing.

"Where's my father?"

"Resting," Tomás replied, not stopping stirring the pan. "He asked me to take over today."

Laura looked at him, first confused, then with something akin to pride.

"And are you doing well?"

"For now, yes."

"Then keep going. And thank you," she told him with a half-smile, before disappearing into the dining area.

The hours passed like a tunnel of noise, grease, and steam. When they finally lowered the metal curtain, it was almost seven. Tomás put the spatula on the counter and rested both hands against the steel. He was breathing heavily, his back muscles cramped and a sharp pain in his heels.

Don Giorgio entered at that moment, more recovered than in the morning, although he walked slowly.

"Everything alright?"

Tomás looked up, drenched in exhaustion.

"Yes... but how on earth have you been doing this for so many years?"

Don Giorgio let out a dry laugh, like someone who knows an answer they won't fully share.

"Good question..." He pulled out an unlit cigarette and twirled it between his fingers. "At first you do it for the bread, then for pride. And when you realize it, you don't know how to do anything else."

Tomás watched him in silence, feeling a pang in his chest. Not of compassion, but of something deeper: a mixture of respect and sadness. Big Root wasn't just a restaurant, it was a piece of that man poured into pots and hot oil. And if one day Don Giorgio stopped coming... someone would have to bear that apron.

That night, as he changed in the dressing room, Tomás felt that a part of him had stepped forward. He didn't know how long he could keep doing that every day, but he did know that, even if his body fell apart, he would never allow the restaurant to fall with him.

Tomás finished wiping the damp cloth over the griddle. The place was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the drip of a faucet that never seemed to close completely. The steam had dissipated, but the air still smelled of meat and sautéed onions. He loosened his apron and hung it on its hook, about to head to the changing room when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

It was Laura.

"Are you done?" she asked in a low voice, as if she didn't want to disturb the silence.

Tomás nodded. "All clean. Even the hood." He turned to her, his face tired, but satisfied.

Laura leaned against the doorframe, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She had a flour stain on her blouse and dark circles under her eyes.

"My dad told me you took over today."

"It was a bit intense," Tomás admitted, wiping his hands with a cloth. "I didn't think parts of my body I didn't even know existed would hurt."

She chuckled softly, barely a breath of a voice.

"Welcome to the adult world," she said with a touch of irony, but without cruelty. "My old man always makes it look easy, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Tomás replied, more serious now. "But today... today it was obvious he can't keep going like this. Has he felt unwell before?"

Laura hesitated. She looked down.

"He's been telling me for weeks that 'he's fine,' that 'it's just the weather,' that 'it'll pass.' But today, for the first time... he didn't want to lie to me. He told me he was truly tired."

"Have you thought about... I don't know, closing for a while?" Tomás asked, tactfully. "Maybe he needs it. And you do too."

Laura shook her head slowly, and her eyes welled up a little.

"I can't. This is all we have. Everything he's built... his whole life is in these walls." She looked around as if she could see her childhood hanging among the pots. "If we close, how do I explain to him that the dream he built with his hands no longer has anyone to support it?"

Tomás took a step towards her.

"But it does. It has you. And your brother, and Alelí. And now, well... me too," he smiled a little awkwardly.

Laura looked at him for an instant, and something in her expression softened. She walked to one of the chairs and sat down heavily, as if finally allowing herself to rest.

"Thank you for today," she said. "What you did was important. For him. For everyone."

Tomás sat across from her, without needing to say much more.

"I'd do it again. I don't know how much I help, but... it feels good to be here," he confessed.

Laura observed him, her eyes searching for a reason in him that he didn't say out loud.

"You're strange, did you know?"

"I've been told," he laughed, shrugging.

"Not many guys your age would get into a kitchen for fun. And even less after being in classes all day."

"I don't know if it's fun." Tomás looked down at his hands. "It's more like a refuge. Here the noise helps me not to think. And you... you also help me not to think so much."

Laura tilted her head, curious. "Me?"

"Yes," he said, without looking up. "You have something... I don't know, like you're about to fall, but you're still there, firm. I guess that gives me strength too."

Laura didn't respond immediately. She looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and something she still didn't dare to acknowledge. Then she smiled, tired, but genuine.

"Be careful, Tomás. Women on the verge of collapse are dangerous."

He laughed, for the first time in hours, sincerely.

"Believe me... I'm a magnet for disasters."

Laura looked down, this time to hide that she was also laughing. Then she stood up and extended her hand.

"Come on. It's late. I'll walk you to the door."

Tomás took his coat, but before leaving, he took one last look at the kitchen. The dim lights, the lingering smell of food, the echo of voices that had already left. Everything seemed more intimate, more his own.

Laura opened the door and let the cold air caress their faces. Before he crossed the threshold, she said in a low voice:

"Thanks for tending the fire when he couldn't."

Tomás looked at her softly, feeling that something inside him was beginning to change too.

"And thanks for trusting me with the kitchen."

They said goodbye with a gesture. But the silence between them said much more.