Page 7 of Morena
I laughed softly. “Yeah, gracias.”
He pointed toward the kitchen and carried the food to the table, ignoring the dark stains across the wood.
“Mi mamáliked to drink wine,“ he said, gesturing to them.
Wine stains?I doubted it. Something in me refused to believe.
I only nodded. When he sat down, I dragged out a chair on the opposite side and joined him.
He unwrapped two sandwiches, setting one before me. He bit into his, speaking with his mouth half full.
“I heard about you and Isabella.”
I almost choked on my bite. I swallowed hard and nodded.
“What did you hear?” I asked, clearing my throat around the bite.
“That Paco caught you two.” He laughed. “I am surprised you are alive.”
I chuckled nervously. “Yeah, me too.”
“Paco is a good man. He had a difficult childhood. Both of us did.” His gaze drifted to the kitchen window. “He does not want that life for Isabella.” Then he turned back to meet my eyes. “Nor do I.”
I swallowed hard, choking on the weight of his words. “I understand.”
“Good.” He stood.
His steps carried him to the hallway, where he paused by the staircase. “So many good memories in this house. Qué pena4. Now it is only memories.”
“Sometimes memories are all we need to hold onto. Not people. Not houses,” I said, rising from my chair.
“You speak like a man who never had anything but memories.” He chuckled. “You need more than that.”
“Memories are the only thing that keep me moving.” I held his eyes. “When I look back and see how happy life was, it gives me hope that maybe it will be again. Maybe I do have only that. Maybe I am not a rich man, but I have rich memories.”
“Wise words from a man with no roof over his head.” He laughed. “Finish this job,rich man, and maybe I will get you one.”
My fist clenched at my side, nails digging into my palm. I swallowed my pride and only nodded, biting my tongue as he walked away and closed the door. His laughter echoed in my ears.
5Maldito.It is always the ones who have everything who find the audacity to joke about the ones who have nothing.
I leaned against the wall, jaw tight, listening until his footsteps faded outside. The silence that followed was worse than his laughter.
The air felt colder now. It was the kind of cold that did not belong to the hour or the season. It was midsummer, yet the house breathed winter. The chill seeped from the gaps in the wood, from the floorboards, from the dark place beneath the stairs.
I edged closer to the staircase. My palms pressed against the wood as I leaned forward, trying to peer down again. Then the step beneath me gave way.
The world dropped out from under me. My body struck the floor below with a bone-shaking thud. My ears rang. My visionblurred. The white square of light above faded to nothing. Darkness pressed against my eyes. My breath slowed. My eyelids sank.
I felt nothing. Nothing at all.
Then light split the dark. A hand reached out from it, delicate, nails painted black. It pulled me upward, and I was no longer in the house.
I stood barefoot on a shore. The sea breathed against my feet. She was waiting there.
Her black curls fell long to her hips, whipped by the salty wind. A white dress clung to her bronze skin, wet and heavy from seawater. She belonged to this place, to Barcelona’s oldest stones, to the secrets buried in cathedrals and sea caves. Her hair was the night and her skin the fire of the sun, but her eyes, storm-tossed jade fractured with silver, were something else. They did not simply look at me. They saw me. Through me.
Her lips moved in a whisper. Her cheeks flushed. And for a moment, I forgot this was a dream. I wanted her. I wanted to come home to her. In her, I saw life itself.
