Just as her hand reached for the cold, polished door handle of the car, the phone in her purse vibrated with an insistent urgency. Lysandra pulled it out, frowning slightly as she saw an unfamiliar number on the screen. She hesitated for a moment, the day's fatigue beginning to take its toll, but her professionalism prompted her to answer.
"Lysandra Thorne," she said, her voice maintaining a neutral and efficient tone.
"Miss Thorne, I'm so relieved to find you!" The voice on the other end was feminine, hurried but clear, with an undertone of polite urgency. "This is Sofía Cabrera, the deputy director of the Museo Maya de Cancún. I'm sorry for the abrupt call, but an unforeseen situation has arisen and we desperately need your expert opinion."
Lysandra sat up slightly. The Museo Maya. A landmark in the region. "An unforeseen situation, Miss Cabrera?"
"That's right. We've received an unexpected donation, some ceramic pieces that, according to the donor, come from an unexcavated site in southern Quintana Roo. They're... peculiar, and we have a small window for a preliminary evaluation before the museum board arrives tomorrow for a review. We close in two hours, at six o'clock. I know it's a tall order on such short notice, but your reputation for authenticating Mayan artifacts is impeccable. Is there any chance, however remote, that you could get close?"
Two hours. The museum was in the middle of the Hotel Zone, a drive that, depending on evening traffic, could take between thirty and forty-five minutes. It was a race against time, but the mention of "peculiar" pieces from an unexcavated site was too tempting a lure for his innate curiosity. Besides, the Maya Museum was an institution he deeply respected; collaborating with them was always an honor. The shadow of personal discoveries and anguished dreams seemed to momentarily recede before the call of duty and professional mystery.
"Understood, Miss Cabrera," Lysandra said, her mind already calculating the logistics. "I'm on my way. I should be there in approximately forty minutes."
"Wonderful, Miss Thorne! We don't know how much we appreciate it. I'll personally wait for you at the main entrance."
After hanging up, Lysandra gave the driver the new address. The car rejoined the traffic flow, leaving the bustle of downtown behind and heading toward the glittering tourist corridor of Cancún's Hotel Zone. On one side, the Nichupté Lagoon sparkled in the afternoon sun; on the other, glimmers of the turquoise Caribbean could be seen between the imposing hotels.
As the landscape transformed, so did the one in her mind. The urgency of the museum's call had momentarily displaced the intensity of her personal discoveries, but now, in the rhythmic monotony of the trip, the memory of Horacio, revived by Mauricio's charismatic presence, returned with unexpected force, opening a floodgate to a torrent of "What would have happened if…?"
The mental image was so vivid that she could almost smell the scent of the old books in the La Salle University library. She saw herself, younger, with that studious seriousness that already characterized her, but with a spark of curiosity in her eyes that Horacio always seemed able to ignite. What would have happened if she had accepted that first invitation to study together? She imagined herself sitting across from him at an oak table, not with the tension of competition, but with the camaraderie of two minds exploring together. Ideas flowing, laughter shared over some historical anecdote, the glow of mutual admiration in their eyes as they unraveled a complex concept. A friendship. An intellectual and human connection she had rejected for fear of distraction, for that almost compulsive need to keep her walls intact.
Then the image transformed. The campus disappeared, replaced by the dim lighting of a small bohemian café, the sound of a Spanish guitar in the background—like the one her father used to play. Horacio stood before her, his smile no longer just mischievous, but tinged with a tenderness that made her skin crawl. His hands, strong and expressive, gesticulating as he spoke of his dreams, his passions. And she, in this fantasy, didn't flinch, didn't look away. She listened to him, truly listened, and shared fragments of her own inner world, of her fascination with the echoes of the past. She felt the warmth of his hand accidentally brushing hers on the table, an electric spark, the promise of a stolen kiss under the moon on any given night. A courtship. The intoxication of a young, vibrant love, full of discovery and the simple joy of each other's company.
The reverie deepened, leaping forward in years, maturing. She saw herself in a home, not a silent, vast mansion, but a house filled with light, books, and perhaps, the happy clutter.