When I finished eating, Rafael stood up before I did and, without saying anything, picked up my crutches with such naturalness that it felt like he would always do that, under any circumstance.
— I'll help you upstairs — he said, already moving toward me.
I rolled my eyes, half annoyed.
— Upstairs for what? To stare at the ceiling until dinner?
The landlord let out a quiet laugh.
— If you want, you can stay down here. I'll finish tidying up the kitchen and then sit with you. If you get tired and want to go up, I'll help.
I almost sighed in relief.
— Then I'll stay — I said, trying to sound casual, though my gaze slipped to Rafael before I could stop it.
He made a long, dramatic sound of complaint, just to provoke.
— I can already picture it: when I get back from the university, I'll find both of you sprawled in the middle of the stairs.
— Oh, come on, boy — the landlord replied, laughing. — I can handle a lot more than a staircase.
Rafael rolled his eyes — but the corner of his mouth almost smiled.
He walked toward me and extended his hand. It wasn't exaggerated or showy — it was almost instinctive, like my fingers somehow already knew where to fit between his.
— Come on. I'll get you to the couch.
— I could help clear the table — I muttered, frustrated with my own limitations.
— No — he cut in immediately, leaving no room for debate. — You're going to sit, and stay sitting.
— Bossy.
— Stubborn — he shot back, and in that second we almost smiled at the same time.
I sat slowly. My leg found a comfortable position, and my entire body thanked me.
— In a bit we'll find a cooking show and maybe decide tomorrow's lunch — the landlord announced, adjusting the cloth on his shoulder.
— Works for me — I replied with a smile.
Rafael disappeared into the hallway and came back seconds later, backpack across his chest, hair falling over his eyes as he adjusted the strap.
— I'm heading to the university — he said, still not really looking at me.
He paused at the door.
— If you need me — he added, voice low, almost calm — just call.
I nodded.
— I'll call.
He tilted his head, turned away, and left.
The door closed gently.
I stared at the empty space he left behind, as if the air still held the outline of his shoulders.
A few moments later, the landlord finished drying the last pan. He hung the cloth on the hook and came to sit beside me on the couch with a kind of enthusiasm so sincere it reminded me of a child.
— Ah, it's been a while since I had company to watch TV — he said, settling beside me carefully.
He picked up the remote and flipped through channels slowly, commenting on each one as if hosting a show:
— This one's just cartoons… this one's old soap opera reruns… oh, this is a cooking show, I get hungry just watching.
I laughed, adjusting the cushion under my immobilized leg.
— Leave it wherever you want — I said. — I promise I won't complain.
He smiled, pleased, and left the TV on a channel where two people debated the best way to stretch homemade pasta.
For a few seconds, we stayed like that.Soft TV noise in the background, the window open letting in the breeze.A simple peace — the kind that feels rare.
The landlord glanced sideways at me — not curious, not intrusive, just attentive.
— You know… when you go back to the university, you might've missed some important explanations, right?
I nodded slowly.
— Probably… yeah.
— If you have trouble with any subject, or feel like you're behind… — he made a small gesture, almost absent-minded — you can ask Rafael for help.
— I know — I murmured. — He's really good at that stuff.
— He is — the landlord agreed, turning back to the TV. — Always has been very intelligent.
We watched in silence for a few more minutes.He grumbled when they added too much olive oil to the pan, I laughed…But my head was far away.
Like my questions were all leaning against the door, waiting for the right moment to come in.
I waited for a good moment — or at least one that seemed casual.
— Has he always been like this? — I asked, keeping my eyes on the TV, as if it were simple curiosity. — Rafael… so quiet.
The landlord took a moment before answering.He adjusted his position on the sofa, rested his elbow on the armrest, like he was trying to find the right way to say it.
— No — he said at last, voice light but full of memory. — When he was little, he talked too much, actually. Asked everything, wanted to understand how everything worked… took apart toy cars to see what was inside. He had an easy laugh.
— And… when did that change? — I asked, keeping my tone gentle.
This time, the silence stretched longer.The landlord lowered the volume a bit, but didn't turn the TV off — as if he needed that soft background noise to keep going.
— It was… a complicated phase — he said slowly.
— His mother got sick. They were very close… that woman had a way of making everything lighter — he continued, and a small smile flickered. — When she started getting worse, Rafael tried to stay near her all the time.
He ran the cloth between his fingers, like the gesture helped him speak.
— Brought her water, blankets, held her hand… as if that alone could heal her. He thought that if he stayed close, nothing bad could happen.
— It was around that time… — the landlord took a deep breath — that your father came into the story.
My heart tightened.
— My father?
— Yes — he nodded. — Back then, his construction company was still standing. I worked for him. When her illness worsened and the medicine got too expensive… I couldn't afford it anymore.
Warm pressure climbed up my chest.
— Your father didn't think twice — the landlord continued, voice steady with gratitude. — He paid for doctors, exams, strong medication. Everything she needed to stop suffering. Thanks to him, she spent her last months without pain… without that agony.
He blinked quickly, brushing away something that almost fell from his eyes.
— I never forgot that.
I froze.My father had never told me this.Never.
— And when his company went under and I heard you were struggling… Rafael and I were already moving here, our old house would be empty.
He smiled softly.
— There was nothing to think about… it was our turn to take care of you.
— I… I had no idea — I whispered. — He never talked about it.
— Your father isn't the type to talk about what he does for others — the landlord said with the calm certainty of someone who knows. — He just does it. Quietly. Without expecting anything.
I felt like I was seeing my own story from another angle.
My connection with Rafael didn't start in front of my house, when he made faces to make me laugh.It started long before, when he was holding his mother's hand and my father was holding his — even from a distance.
I drew a long breath, feeling everything rearrange inside me… memories, feelings, questions — all finding new places. I wasn't ready for this, but somehow… I was.
The landlord continued, voice softer, as if touching something fragile:
— After all that… Rafael stopped talking outward and started talking only inward.
He turned slightly toward me, with a tenderness that hurt.
— After we moved here — he went on, even quieter — Rafael made a friend at school. They got close, and little by little he started laughing again. Not like before… but he left the door cracked open for us to get back into his life.
— But a few years later, the two of them got into some serious trouble. And then… — the landlord sighed, staring at the floor — he shut himself again.
He looked at me for a moment, gauging whether I wanted to hear more.
— But that part — he said with a sad half-smile — is a story for another day. Or for Rafael himself to tell you, when he decides to.
I only nodded. I had no breath left for more revelations — my chest was full, as if someone had opened windows I didn't even know were there.
The landlord adjusted his posture again.
— He's not bad, Helena. Not lost. — he said with gentle firmness. — He just… lives afraid of breaking what he touches.
My eyes drifted on their own toward the door Rafael had gone through.Afraid of breaking what he touches.
Maybe that's what it had been from the beginning.
The landlord placed a light hand on my good knee — a small gesture, almost a comfort.
— You make him talk, you know?
My heart stumbled inside my chest.
— Me? — I whispered, unsure whether to smile or gasp.
— When you're around, he looks at the world differently — the landlord said, simply stating a fact. — I don't think he's realized it yet.
I looked at the TV, but the image had turned into nothing but color and movement.
Because for the first time…
what I wanted was to learn, slowly, how to touch something without breaking it.