Big Root smelled of hot oil, toasted bread, and garlic sauce.
It was an unmistakable mix that, with each passing day, had become as familiar as the air to Tomás. That day didn't seem different from the others, but something in the atmosphere felt tense, contained. As if the restaurant were holding its breath.
When he arrived, the first thing he saw was Laura speaking in low tones with Alelí in a corner of the dining area. Both had furrowed brows. Don Giorgio, on the other hand, was already in the kitchen, standing in front of the griddle, mechanically wiping a spatula.
But something about his posture looked different.
More rigid.
Less... sure.
"Good morning, kid," Don Giorgio grumbled without turning to face him. "About time."
"Good morning, Don Giorgio. Are you in the trenches alone today?"
The old man raised the spatula as if it were a ceremonial sword.
"Always am."
Tomás put on his apron and went to the sink. He washed his hands and turned to glance at Don Giorgio. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and his movements, though still precise, had a touch of clumsiness.
The day began. Orders came and went. Alelí entered with folded tickets, Laura's voice crossed the kitchen with orders and questions, and the griddle sizzled incessantly.
Don Giorgio directed everything with his usual authority, but Tomás noticed the microseconds of pause in each turn. Every now and then, the old man rested his hand against the countertop, disguising a sigh amidst the steam of the meat.
But he resisted.
Like an oak that refuses to crack, even as the wind whips it from all sides.
"Pass me the potatoes," he said suddenly, in a hoarse voice.
Tomás obeyed without hesitation.
"Are you okay?" he asked as he dropped the potatoes into the oil.
"I'm old, that's all." His voice held a note of defeat that Tomás had not heard before. "But I have to be here."
Nothing more was said for a good while.
The afternoon wore on. The heat in the kitchen was thick like soup. Tomás worked non-stop, more attentive to Don Giorgio than ever.
It was near closing, when the flow of orders began to dwindle, that Giorgio finally sat on the stool in the corner of the kitchen. It wasn't usual.
"Take over, kid. You finish the closing."
"Are you sure?"
"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't ask you," he replied sternly, but not abruptly.
Tomás nodded and returned to the griddle. By this point, he had done almost everything at least once, and though it wasn't the first time he was in charge, this time it felt official, with the entire responsibility in his hands.
He pulled off the last few hamburgers, cleaned the griddle, drained the oil, checked the kitchen closing procedures as Laura had taught him. All in silence, while Don Giorgio watched him from the corner, arms crossed and his face sunken in shadow.
When he finished, he took off his gloves and turned to him.
"Done."
Giorgio looked at him for a few seconds without saying anything. Then he nodded, and in his voice there was a strange mix of exhaustion and tenderness.
"I told you, didn't I? That I didn't dislike you."
"Yes," Tomás smiled gently.
"Well, now I like you even more." He stood up with effort. "But don't get carried away."
He approached the sink, washed his hands, and stood looking at the water running, as if thinking about something that weighed too heavily.
"You know, Don Giorgio? You should rest a little more. Laura can..."
"Laura already does enough," he interrupted. "Everyone does what they can. But someone has to stand firm, Tomás."
"Firm?"
"Yes," he turned to him, his gaze hardened by the years. "Firm. When everything else wavers. When people get sick, when the numbers don't add up, when things don't go as they should... someone has to hold on. Not because it's fair. But because if you don't... everything falls apart."
Tomás didn't respond. Because he understood it too well.
Because he too had felt the weight of being the one who held things together. The one who couldn't break, even if he was falling apart inside.
Giorgio returned to his stool slowly.
"I am that someone for this family. And I will be until my last day."
"I understand. But you're not alone, Don Giorgio. We're here. Laura, Alelí... me too."
The old man looked at him with slightly glassy eyes, though he disguised it with a snort.
"Bah... don't get sentimental. Go on, get out of here. Tomorrow's another day."
Tomás obeyed. As he changed in the dressing room, he thought about the hidden fragility behind the strength.
About that old man who had made the kitchen a temple. Who had started selling hamburgers from a cart, and now had a family that depended on him.
He closed his locker. As he left, he passed the dining room door and saw Laura, still in front of her computer, battling the numbers with a tight frown.
He thought about saying something, but he didn't.
He simply left, with the scent of the kitchen still clinging to his clothes, and with the certainty that, although that place seemed about to collapse, it was still standing... because someone, in there, was holding it up with pure will.
It was almost ten o'clock at night and, as usual, his body was exhausted, but that night something else weighed on his shoulders. The unfinished conversation with Soledad still floated like a heavy cloud, the memory of Don Giorgio's trembling gaze shook him, and Delia Krikket's silence squeezed his chest. All together, like an invisible hand slowly squeezing.
He opened the door carefully, without making a sound, like someone afraid to interrupt a dream. But there was no silence to interrupt.
The dining room light was on.
Amelie was sitting at the table, waiting for him. Her hair pulled back in a somewhat loose ponytail, a closed book in front of her, and that severe expression she had learned to use when she wanted to seem stronger than she felt.
Tomás stopped dead when he saw her. She looked at him without speaking for a few seconds.
He tried to force a smile, but it was useless.
"You're coming home later and later," she said bluntly. It wasn't a shouted reproach, but her tone was acidic, like a wound that doesn't fester but still hurts.
"I know," he replied, looking down. "I'm sorry."
Amelie crossed her arms over her chest.
"You're not even home on weekends anymore. What's going on, Tomás?"
The young man took off his backpack and left it by the coat rack. Then he slowly walked to the table, where remnants of the lunch he himself had prepared the night before still remained.
He stood for a moment, frowning, as if searching for the exact words.
But in the end, he didn't find them. He just slumped into the chair opposite her.
"I'm working at a restaurant," he said, bluntly. "I need to."
Amelie looked at him in disbelief.
"You need to? You're not obligated to, Tomás. You're not."
"I know. But they need me there," he replied, with a silent plea in his voice. "Don Giorgio, the owner, is sick. The place is almost held up by him alone. His daughter can barely manage everything... and I..." he inhaled deeply, "I don't know, I feel like if I don't go, something will fall apart."
Amelie remained silent. She watched him as if trying to recognize the child she raised, the young man she had cared for. But the young man in front of her was neither one nor the other. He was someone who was growing faster than she could comprehend.
"Tomás... you also have important things. School, your studies... your responsibilities."
"I haven't neglected them," he replied in a low voice. "But this is important to me. It makes me feel good. I feel useful."
She pressed her lips together. She hesitated. She saw him lean forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes tired and his whole body speaking of exhaustion, but also of determination.
Finally, she sighed with resignation.
"Alright," she said almost in a whisper. "But promise me you won't neglect the rest."
"I promise."
Tomás looked up and met her gaze. There was neither resentment nor defiance in his eyes. Only need. And perhaps, a little hope.
Amelie gently stood up and went to warm the food he had left ready before leaving in the morning.
Meanwhile, Tomás remained seated, looking at the tablecloth, his mind wandering among worries he couldn't quite process. When she returned, she placed the plates on the table without saying anything else.
They ate together in silence.
It wasn't an uncomfortable silence.
It was the kind of silence that occurs when there's too much to say, but both understand that it's not the time. An unspoken pact.
Tomás watched her out of the corner of his eye as she ate. She finished everything he had prepared, down to the last spoonful. Just like when they were children and shared anything left on the table, except the words they needed most.
When they finished, Amelie collected the dishes and took them to the sink.
"Thank you," she said, without turning around.
Tomás didn't respond. He just looked at her for a few seconds and then got up to go to his room.
He knew that the next day everything would start again. The tiredness, the chores, the restaurant, Sofía... Soledad.
But for that night, even if only for a little while, they had shared something again.
And that was enough.