Chapter Six: Until You Say Goodbye (#5)

When Tomás arrived home, dawn was just breaking through the gaps in the curtains. The silence of the house was absolute, as if the whole world still floated in the limbo of dreams. He moved stealthily, left his bag in his room, and, without turning on more lights than necessary, went to the bathroom.

The shower fell over him like a long sigh. The hot water washed away the fatigue of the trip, the tension of the past days, the weight of the award that now seemed almost unreal. He didn't think too much about it: when he came out, with wet hair and his face still sleepy, he took the award he had received in the capital and placed it on his desk, next to the manuscript of Seasons of Solitude, as if that object could be a new chapter in his life, or perhaps just a comma.

He didn't wake anyone.

In the kitchen, he prepared breakfast with the familiarity of routine. He knew how Daniela liked her eggs, how much sugar Amelie would take in her coffee even if she said she didn't want any. He served everything in silence, left the cups ready on the table, and wrote a note that simply said "Good day," accompanied by a small smiley face.

He didn't need applause, or congratulations. His wasn't a celebration. It was about returning. Returning to what he knew, to the steps that gave meaning to his days.

He took his backpack and left the house for the Big Root.

The sky still had the faint color of days just beginning, and as he walked, he thought of Don Giorgio. He'd surely be cutting vegetables and grumbling about his back pain already. He quickened his pace a little and smiled, hoping to find him in a good mood, with a new complaint and a list of things to do. For the first time, that routine didn't feel like a burden. He wanted to return to it. He needed it.

Because now, more than ever, he had a reason to return.

And that reason had Sofía's face.

With every step he took, his mind drew her more clearly. The way she frowned when she didn't like something. Her uncomfortable silences, her bursts of laughter when they escaped her unwillingly, her way of speaking as if she were always measuring how much she could give of herself. The way she looked at him just before pulling away... and just before letting him stay.

Without intending to, he had started writing about her.

He had done it on the bus ride back. On a crumpled sheet of paper, then on his phone's notepad, then in his head. The first lines of a new, different, warmer story. It still had no title, but he knew very well where it began.

And with a little luck... if he could withstand the time he had left, if his words were fast enough... he would manage to finish it before she left.

Because she would.

He sensed it in her gestures, in her hands that sometimes trembled when touching him, in her silence when he told her he loved her. He knew it. And although it hurt him, although that certainty began to cast the shadow of the end, he also knew something else.

She had ignited something in him.

And that... that would never leave.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning unfolded slowly in Sofía's apartment. Still wrapped in her sheets, with the scent of the breakfast Tomás had left her still lingering in the air, Sofía gazed at the ceiling as if seeking answers in the invisible cracks of the paint.

He was already gone. As always. And as always, he had been kind, considerate, loving. That unwavering tenderness he offered without asking for anything in return, without conditions. Without reservations.

The cup of coffee he had made for her was still warm on her nightstand. Beside it, the book she had started writing weeks ago, the one she refused to show him, the one that contained everything she didn't dare tell him aloud. Not yet.

Sofía observed everything from her bed, in silence, her heart heavy.

She knew the moment was near.

If she won the prize, she would have to leave. She had signed the terms and conditions; she had considered the implications. She knew it from the beginning: if her manuscript was selected, the scholarship would take her abroad. A new city. A new life. And perhaps, the definitive rebirth of the writer she once thought was dead.

But now, she wasn't the only one who existed in that world.

There was Tomás.

Tomás, who had given her back her words.

Tomás, who had filled every corner of her home and her body with warmth.

Tomás, who slept beside her as if time didn't hurt, as if it were eternal.

And she, who knew everything—who knew he suspected she would leave, that he would accept her departure without reproach, with that serene sadness so uniquely his—she couldn't keep hiding behind the inevitable.

Because if there was one thing she had learned from him…

It was to not love halfway.

So she sat up in bed, poured herself the last drop of lukewarm coffee, and held it in her hands as if it were an oath. Her lips trembled at the thought, but she thought it nonetheless: "If I go… I will go without regrets."

And that could only mean one thing: to give herself completely.

Not as a distraction.

Not as companionship.

Not as a refuge.

But as what Tomás was to her: her breath, her impulse, her tenderness. Her love.

She couldn't promise to stay. She couldn't lie to him.

But she could love him.

Truly.

With everything.

Without reservations.

Without protection.

Even if it hurt later.

Even if it left a scar.

Because if one day, many years from now, he wondered if he had been loved… Sofía wanted the answer to be a resounding yes. Even if he didn't remember her clearly, even if nothing remained but a shadow in his memory, she wanted to know that she didn't leave halfway.

That would be her act of courage.

One last spring. A complete love.

And then, to fly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of the door closing softly didn't wake Daniela, but it did rouse Amelie. She slowly opened her eyes, confused for an instant, until the faint echo of footsteps and the aroma of freshly made food hit her like a revelation. She sat up in bed, stretching unhurriedly. He was back. Tomás was home.

She didn't need to check. The smell of toasted bread, coffee, and eggs was more than enough confirmation.

She put on a robe and shuffled out of the room in her slippers. The morning sun entered weakly through the hallway windows, and when she reached the kitchen, she found the table set. Everything was as usual: two plates, warm bread in a basket, butter on a dish, scrambled eggs still steaming in the pan.

A sigh escaped her unintentionally. It wasn't the breakfast that gave her that feeling of relief... it was the routine.

"You're back," she murmured to herself, barely audible.

She heard no footsteps from the kitchen. Tomás must have already left for work. She approached the coffee maker and poured a cup, taking a sip with that solemn silence one only has in the morning.

"Daniela!" she called louder. "Come down for breakfast before it gets cold! No more excuses, the pizza's gone."

There was a muffled thud from the second floor, followed by quick footsteps down the stairs. Daniela appeared with disheveled hair and a sleepy expression on her face.

"He's back already?" she asked as she sat down and looked at the table with wide eyes. "Thank goodness! I was one food delivery away from turning into a hamburger."

Amelie smiled without saying anything, but in her eyes, there was something akin to gratitude.

"Be grateful he cooks for you. I'm not going to," she said, feigning severity as she handed her the juice.

"I know," Daniela replied with a lazy smile. "But still, thanks for not burning the house down trying to cook."

"Please," Amelie retorted, crossing her arms. "I just chose not to. Not for lack of ability, but lack of desire."

Daniela chuckled between bites, and for a moment, the kitchen filled with a warmth that had been missing in the previous days. It wasn't a big deal, just breakfast. Bread, eggs, coffee.

But with Tomás back, the house smelled like home again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky was still soaked in soft blue when Tomás pushed open the back door of the Big Root. The hanging bell didn't chime—it only did at the main entrance—but the creak of the wooden frame was enough for Alelí, who was scrubbing the floor of the dining area with her hair tied in a quick braid, to look up and smile.

"Hey! The award-winning lad has returned," she said with a wide smile, as if she had been saving the phrase just for that moment.

Tomás smiled, raising an eyebrow as he took off his jacket.

"And how's the kitchen? Did it survive without me?"

"Barely," Laura yelled from the office without peeking out. "Dad's already asked for you three times. And that was before ten in the morning."

Tomás left his bag by the ingredient shelf and went straight into the kitchen. Don Giorgio, like an unyielding guardian, stood by the chopping board, knife in hand, facing a mountain of red peppers. But the slight tremor in his left wrist didn't escape Tomás's notice.

"Don Giorgio," he greeted with a tone that was almost familiar, almost filial.

"Tomás!" The man looked up, his thick eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to suppress a smile. "How was the trip? And the award?"

"Quiet. Long. And deserved," he replied as he put on his apron.

Giorgio huffed and yielded the board to him with a grunt.

"It's about time you came back. I'm sick of pretending to be useful. Go on, get to work before I turn young again."

Tomás chuckled softly as he began peeling carrots.

That's how the day began: amidst the ringing of the counter bell, orders constantly coming in, pots boiling, oil crackling, and the aroma of onions browning. The Big Root didn't stop, no matter if one had just won an award or buried a sorrow. There, everything was measured by how long a sauce took to thicken or how many portions of fries went out before closing time.

As the day progressed, Tomás immersed himself in the frantic rhythm of the place with an almost stubborn concentration. The exhaustion was good. Physical effort kept his mind off things. Work, in its purest form, was redemption.

Laura, in a rare moment of pause, stopped beside him as he meticulously cleaned the griddle.

"Hey," she said, in a softer tone than usual. "I'm glad you're back. Dad is too… even if he doesn't say it."

Tomás looked up. He smiled.

"I'm glad to be back too."

And it was true.

Not because everything was fine. Not because he had forgotten what hurt. But because, for some reason, in that noisy, hot corner, where everything was measured in ladles and cooking times, he could feel useful. Steady.

The Big Root's dining area smelled of toasted bread and old coffee, as if the day had lingered in the air. The clock showed past nine, and there were no more customers. Alelí had left an hour ago, after closing the last accounts at the register.

Tomás was sitting at the back of the establishment, with a small calculator and several papers spread out on the table. There were sheets with numbers marked in pencil, his own strokes, calculations with tight margins. The difference was noticeable: Laura usually wrote more messily, more quickly. Tomás did everything calmly, as if organizing the numbers helped him organize something within himself.

Laura watched him from the counter, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. The warm light of the place fell on him as if setting him apart from the rest of the world.

"Hey," she finally said, crossing the room to sit in front of him. "I never thought anyone could make my accounts look decent."

Tomás looked up, barely smiling.

"Your dad told me if I could understand your numbers, I was ready to get married."

"He said that?" she chuckled, surprised. "Shameless old man."

There was a comfortable silence between them. Laura took a sip of tea. Tomás tightened his jaw, then put down the pencil.

"Today was a good day," he said. "The best in weeks."

Laura nodded.

"Yeah. We sold more than expected. And not a single complaint. Not a single return. Can you imagine?"

Tomás didn't respond immediately. He looked at his own hands, still stained with traces of flour. Then he said, as if wanting to make something clear:

"I want the Big Root to keep going. And I want to help you."

Laura put the cup on the table, a little harder than necessary.

"Why are you doing this?"

Tomás blinked.

"Doing what?"

"This. You're here early, you leave late. You help, you cook, you do accounts, you clean, you worry about Dad, about me… why?"

Tomás shrugged.

"Because it's what needs to be done. Because being here makes me feel… useful. I like being here. Because here I don't have to think about everything else."

Laura looked at him intently. She didn't press. She didn't ask questions. She just looked down at the accounts on the table.

"Then, if someday this place succeeds… it'll also be thanks to you," she said, in a quieter voice.

He smiled. He looked at her, longer this time.

"I hope that day comes."

Laura stood up, with that air of someone who doesn't know whether to laugh or hug.

"I'm going to make tea for you. For those who stay beyond closing."

"Does that exist?"

"I just invented it," she replied, walking towards the kitchen.

Tomás remained alone for a moment longer. He looked at the numbers on the table. Sometimes, when nothing else worked, when his heart was too tired or broken, at least numbers could provide certainty. And at that moment, in the back of the Big Root, with the distant echo of the kettle beginning to boil, that certainty was enough.