Tomás climbed the three floors of the old building with a cloth bag hanging from one arm and a small, contained smile on his lips. The hallway smelled as always: a mix of dust, dampness, and a touch of history accumulated on the walls. Reaching the door, he knocked gently, though he knew it wasn't strictly necessary.
When Sofía opened, something about her seemed different.
"Did the emergency supplier arrive?" she said with a wider smile than usual.
"And with the best survival kit in the southern hemisphere," he replied, lifting the bag.
She stepped aside to let him in, still smiling.
"You look in a good mood," Tomás said as he entered.
"Don't ruin it by analyzing," she replied, closing the door with her foot and walking behind him towards the kitchen. "Though I'd like to point out that you don't even ask anymore before invading my space. The other day you organized my nightstand; do you want me to get lost looking for my lipsticks?"
"It was an act of public health," he retorted, as he set the bag on the counter and began taking out the airtight containers with the prepared meals. "The world was saved from an imminent cosmetic catastrophe."
"Unbelievable," she said with a laugh, taking an empty glass to the cupboard. Then she filled it with red wine and, before leaving, gave him a light shove with her shoulder as she passed. "Heat up whatever you want, I'll be in my cave."
"Cave or sanctuary?" he asked.
"Depends on the day."
Sofía disappeared down the hallway towards her room, the glass in one hand, the manuscript under her arm.
Tomás sighed with affection, opened the refrigerator, and began organizing the containers. He heated one of the stews he had prepared the night before, letting the aromas envelop the small kitchen with homemade warmth. He added garlic toast, a touch he knew Sofía enjoyed, even if she pretended otherwise.
As he served the dishes, his gaze drifted towards the hallway. The dim light emanating from Sofía's room spread across the floor like a promise: something warm, something quiet, something fragile.
He took both trays and walked towards that light.
He knocked softly before pushing the slightly ajar door. He found her sitting on the bed, legs crossed, laptop on her lap, fingers stained with ink and wine, and her face illuminated by the screen. Her expression was different. Not just more animated, but alive, as if something inside her was reassembling itself word by word.
Tomás paused in the doorway and watched her for a few seconds. He didn't want to interrupt her. He didn't want to ruin that moment of brilliant stillness. But the memory of Professor Krikket's words pierced his mind: "When a wounded bird regains its strength, it flies again."
And he knew it. He was seeing it happen, right before his eyes.
He swallowed, took a deep breath, and, with a calm smile, called to her: "Dinner's ready. Only if your muse allows it, of course."
Sofía looked up, her gaze somewhat glazed by the wine, but full of light. "She's not resisting today. She must be hungry."
"Good thing," he joked, "because I cooked for her too."
Sofía closed the laptop and placed it on the nightstand. She sat up slowly, stretching like a cat. "What did you make this time?"
"Lentil stew with roasted bell pepper. And garlic bread."
"Ugh. You're going to ruin me for anyone else," she said softly, as she followed him to the kitchen.
"I'm already ruined myself," he joked, though the phrase carried a deeper undertone than he wanted to acknowledge.
They sat facing each other, their glasses between them, the steam from the food rising in small spirals.
They ate in silence for a while. Not because words were lacking, but because the moment didn't need them. Sofía glanced at him from time to time, as if she couldn't help but think of the security he brought into her life. Of that harmless, simple warmth that sustained her without asking for anything.
And Tomás, as he broke the bread and shared it with her, told himself that everything would be okay, even when she decided to fly. That for now, at least, his place remained here. Sitting across from her, sharing a stew that tasted of refuge.
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Night had fallen softly, like a light sheet gently tucking the city in. In Sofía's apartment, the warm glow of her desk lamp drew a circle of clarity on the paper, while the rest of the room remained in a dim, golden twilight. Outside, the murmur of cars mingled with the wind, still cold despite the promise of spring.
Sofía leaned back in her chair, a light blanket draped over her shoulders and the glass of wine, almost untouched, between her fingers.
She didn't have a hangover. She didn't have that dullness she had grown accustomed to, as much as to her sleepless nights. She had barely taken a couple of sips, and that was all. She didn't need it that much. Not this time.
Or perhaps she did… but not for the usual reasons.
She looked towards her bedroom door, the same one Tomás had left through a few hours earlier, after placing the last food container in the refrigerator, assuring her she could heat it in any order, though "the rice with lentils is better before Thursday." And, just as he was about to close the door behind him, she had said:
"Don't leave without kissing my forehead."
It was a gesture that had started as a game, a silent habit, a small ritual that Tomás had initiated without knowing how much it would mean to her. A simple, light, almost invisible touch… but one that left a deep warmth, like a refuge extending from her skin to her heart.
And this time—perhaps because he understood it too—he had responded without hesitation:
"I won't leave. I'll stay until you leave."
At that moment, she just smiled. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about it too much. But now, alone, the weight of those words floated over her chest like a question she didn't dare to answer.
She took a sip of the wine. She didn't know if she did it for pleasure or out of habit.
Tomás had asked her to drink less. He hadn't said it judgmentally, nor with that false compassion she so disliked from well-meaning adults. He said it with the voice of someone who had been present every day, caring in silence. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." That's how he had said it.
And for the first time in a long time, she had felt she owed something to someone.
She placed the glass on the desk, without emptying it.
She reached for the manuscript Tomás had left her weeks ago, "Seasons of Soledad," and stroked the cover with her fingers, as if she could feel his voice in the ink. She had read it several times already, but that night she wanted to look at it with different eyes.
She opened a page at random, like someone searching for an answer.
She read a paragraph she knew well, a simple, everyday scene. A character lit a stove for someone they loved, because they knew that person would forget to do it alone. A minimal, almost imperceptible gesture. But there, in that action, Sofía saw her own reflection, and something clenched in her stomach.
Her eyes slid over the rest of the chapter and, for the first time, she read it with full awareness of what it represented.
He was writing about me.
Not just because of the obvious references, nor because of the words she herself had helped to polish. It was the way Tomás observed the world. With patience. With tenderness. With that mixture of pain and hope that too closely resembled her own.
She set the manuscript aside and reached for her notebook.
The written pages were growing in number. The cross-outs were no longer signs of frustration, but of work. Of someone returning to writing like someone returning to air after being underwater for too long.
She was writing again.
She thought about what she had said weeks ago, her voice rough with wine and pride: "I have nothing to give you. I'm not a writer anymore."
But that was no longer true.
Now, what scared her wasn't not being able to write, but what writing meant.
She looked at the glass of wine. Still untouched.
Tomás had given her back something she believed was dead.
And, in doing so, he had also left his mark. Like another season added to the cycle of her life. A season without a name, without an exact date. But with the promise of something real.
She got up, walked to the kitchen, and emptied the glass into the sink.
She returned to her desk. She opened a new blank page. She took her pen. And before writing another line, she whispered to herself:
"Thank you, Tomás."
Because even if he didn't know it, he had stayed.
And more and more, she felt she no longer wanted him to leave.