The last few months at the Big Root had been a silent battle. Not one of shouting or conflict, but of sustained effort, long days, and accumulated fatigue hidden beneath the skin. Tomás knew it well. He felt it in his shoulders at the end of his shift, in his aching feet when he got home, in the nights when sleep came late because his mind was still solving orders or reviewing mathematical formulas to prepare Sunny.
And yet, he kept going.
Every day, without fail.
Because something within him had hardened and, at the same time, lit up.
Don Giorgio, who at first resisted letting go of the kitchen, now left earlier, took more days off. When they crossed paths during shift changes, the old cook seemed more rested, more serene.
"It's all in your hands today, ragazzo," he'd say with a gentle pat on the back, and Tomás would nod without thinking, like someone carrying something he knew belonged to him.
Laura had stopped frowning every time she opened the computer to look at the accounts. After months of adjusting expenses, clearing overdue debts, and meticulously reviewing prices, the numbers were starting to add up. Enough to breathe without that sharp weight in her chest. Sometimes, Tomás would find her reviewing the accounting with a cup of tea in her hand and something akin to a smile on her face.
"We're making progress," she'd tell him, and even if she didn't say it with overflowing enthusiasm, for him it was enough.
Alelí, for her part, no longer wore that look of constant stress. Laura had hired a new waitress to share the workload in the dining room, which meant Alelí no longer ran with her tray between tables as if fleeing a fire. Now she even had time to joke, and sometimes, in the kitchen, she dared to hum fragments of songs while helping to set up plates at the counter.
Tomás felt the pulse of that place in every movement, in every order, in every smell that permeated his clothes when he came home.
And outside the restaurant, he continued to study.
The university entrance exam was approaching like a distant storm, and amidst his own studies, he still found time to help Sunny, who progressed more by sheer will than by ability.
"It's like teaching a wall," he once told Amelie with a laugh, and though he exaggerated, the affection in his voice betrayed him.
Every week was a mix of exhausting routines and discreet moments of joy. The Big Root was still alive, beating strongly amidst the ordinary days.
And Tomás was too.
Firmer. More mature.
Tired, yes, but standing tall.
Because even though life sometimes seemed to push him from all angles, he had learned to stand firm, as Don Giorgio once said:
"Someone has to remain steady when everything seems uncertain."
And now, he was that someone.
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Tomás would have almost forgotten the award he had won if it weren't for the trophy still sitting on his desk, slowly gathering a fine layer of dust. It was there, motionless, like a silent witness to everything that had changed since then. He no longer looked at it with emotion. Sometimes, he barely noticed it.
However, that afternoon, an email pulled him out of his routine.
"Dear Tomás Lambert, we are pleased to inform you that Élan Publishing House has decided to publish Seasons of Loneliness. If you agree, we will send the contracts to your home address in the coming days for your review and signature."
He stared at the screen for a few seconds, unblinking.
He had forgotten the excitement. He had forgotten the dream.
But he didn't forget to reply.
"Yes."
That was all he wrote.
He didn't need to overthink it. He knew that was the natural destiny of a book: to reach the hands of others, to touch other lives, to open small doors in someone else's heart, just as he himself had been touched by other stories before.
Perhaps… "It Was You" deserved that too.
Someday.
Without overthinking, he sent a message to Sofía. He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't need one.
"I agreed to publish Seasons of Loneliness.
When it's published, check the epilogue.
I changed it before sending it."
It was a brief message, but it contained everything that needed to be said. Perhaps she would read it immediately, or maybe weeks later. But when she did, she would know what he hadn't dared to say with words.
That night, while everyone slept, he opened his secret chest. His mother's old photograph was still intact, its edges creased with age. He turned on the small lamp beside his bed, as on so many previous nights, and sat down to talk to her.
This time, he didn't tell her too much.
"Mother… it seems the book is going to be published. The first one," he said softly, with a tired smile. "I don't know if it's worth it, I don't know if anyone will read it, but… it's okay, isn't it? I did what I had to do."
He ran his fingers along the edge of the photo, as if caressing a memory.
"She left," he added after a long silence. "Just as you said they would, those people you love too much… they fly away. But I'm glad I helped her fly. That… that was good. As the professor said: someone has to remain firm. And here I am."
He closed the chest carefully, without ritual, without ceremony. There was pain, yes, but there was also peace.
Life continued its course.
So did he.
And now, without fully realizing it, he had begun to write his next season.