“My mother says you’ve known Daniel since college,” Valeria said.
“For far too many years,” Marco replied lightly. “He’s one of the few people who, at forty, is still essentially the same as he was at twenty-two. I find that… reassuring.”
Valeria tilted her head.
“Does consistency comfort you?”
“Sometimes strange things do,” he said. “Especially when they finally show up.”
She studied him, as if that answer had genuinely caught her interest.
Across the room, Marco noticed—without staring—a tall, well-dressed man holding a drink. His expression had shifted from confidence to quiet confusion. Marco didn’t need an introduction to know it was Jaime.
He chose not to look again.
“My mother mentioned you have a daughter,” Valeria said.
Marco felt his heart settle into place, as it always did at the mention of Lucía.
“Her name is Lucía. She’s six. She firmly believes clouds are made of cotton and that worms listen to music. So far, I haven’t found enough scientific evidence to prove her wrong.”
For the first time, something softened in Valeria’s expression. Not quite a smile—just a quiet warmth in her eyes.
“When I was six,” Elena added, “I told my teacher the moon was a night lamp God forgot to turn off every morning. The school called me in, concerned. I told them the girl was probably right.”
Valeria laughed—fully, unexpectedly. And as she did, she briefly touched the back of her left ear.
Marco lowered his gaze to his cup so she wouldn’t notice he had seen.
Then they talked.
And what surprised him most was how easy it felt.
They spoke like two people who hadn’t planned to connect—but found themselves wanting to keep listening. No forced pauses. No polite strain. None of the social tension Marco had come to dread in the years after his marriage ended.
Valeria spoke passionately about architecture.
“Most modern buildings are designed by people who’ve never been alone in a space,” she said. “That’s why so many places look beautiful—but feel empty.”
Marco smiled.
“That sounds true beyond architecture.”
Leave a Comment