Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Current Tenderness II.

Mrs. Prats arrived at five-fifteen, with her fabric bag and — who would have thought — she had swapped scarves for a pink one with white snowmen.

It no longer seemed like a coincidence; several neighbors arriving after a week of being closed only told me one thing:

"Someone announced my return," I whispered, watching my face reflected in the coffee.

"Or maybe they came every day and today found it open. That also explains everything," it said back to me, as I shook my head, watching Mrs. Prats arrive at a very hurried pace.

Without wasting time or her kindness, she hugged me from behind the counter. "Ryne, my dear!" she shouted in my ear, while I returned the hug. "What a relief to see you on your feet and not falling apart at home."

When she let go she took her seat — the third bar stool — wiping the sweat from her forehead. "Give me something cold; I just heard the café was open and came running."

I smiled. "Do you like iced tea?" I asked; she nodded. "By the way, good afternoon — lovely scarf." I set the chamomile tea with honey in front of her. "Here you go."

"Thank you, my dear," she answered, looking at the plate with a strange expression, as if something were missing.

I leaned in to look. "Is something wrong with the tea?"

"No, the tea looks wonderful," she answered. "It’s just that you always gave me a cookie." She looked away, then recovered her composure. "But never mind — it was a courtesy, I shouldn’t complain about a gift; that would be rude."

I looked down at the floor. "I’m sorry — I don’t know how to give good service anymore," I murmured, squeezing my shirt with my hands. "I shouldn’t have come today."

"And why ever not?" She settled her bag on the stool beside her, pulling out a dollar and pointing to the display case. "A week without cookies would drive anyone mad, and I had no intention of making my nutritionist that happy."

I took the dollar, holding it up against the decorative lamps. Smiling. "A pack of cookies," I said, extending it toward her. "And one free. For being a lovely lady."

We laughed together.

"That’s my Ryne," she answered, taking both things. "You have such a beautiful face when you smile." She repeated, biting into the complimentary cookie. "Oh, these really are delicious."

"You always say the same thing," I said, handing her another. "But it makes me very happy that you like them. I’d open every day for it, but right now I can’t."

"I know, dear," she took my hand as I gave her the cookie. "Every day I think about what you went through. Your anxiety, your fear, your suffering. That’s why when I heard you’d opened I came running." She put the cookie in her mouth, talking with it full. "I hadn’t done that in thirty years, but who would have thought I’d beat that young man from the newspaper."

"Young man from the newspaper?"

"You don’t know him — he arrived recently," she answered, taking a sip of her tea. "He’s very kind; you’ll like him. In fact, the first day he arrived he was asking about this place. I kept telling him it was closed."

"And who told him we’d opened?"

"Héctor told us," she answered, pulling her old phone from her bag. "He sent a message in the neighbors’ group about your arrival, and of course, everyone came running to see you, dear." My eyes stopped focusing on her, looking at all the neighbors raising their cups at her words. "Because we all love you, dear."

I opened my mouth for a second, looking at all of them while I immortalized that moment. Something I had only done with four people before, but which I now used for each one of them.

I didn’t respond — the flush on my cheeks already did it for me. "So this is the reach you managed, Ryne," I whispered to myself. "Thank you."

"What did you say, dear?"

My teary eyes lit up just like her tea. "Thank you so much! To all of you!"

She took the cup between both hands, looking at me with that expression people have when they’ve grown old loving everyone around them.

"Dear, why are you crying?"

I touched my cheeks, seeing the proof of my fulfilled wish. "For nothing, Mrs. Prats," I answered. "I’m alright — just happy."

She smiled, looking at the bar for a couple of seconds. "I wouldn’t want to break this beautiful moment, but I really do want to ask you," she inhaled, looking me in the eyes. "Are you really alright?"

"Yes I am," I nodded, looking away for a moment. "Don’t worry about that."

"I know that," she interrupted. "You’re not throwing cups in the air or anything like that — that’s a good sign. But you still suffered, and that’s important to be heard."

"I’m already going to a psychologist," I answered. "It’s not that serious."

"Is that what the psychologist told you?" she asked, not giving me time to speak. "Then listen to me closely, dear. Nobody — absolutely nobody — has any right to tell you that you didn’t suffer, because you did."

"Mrs. Prats," I tried to clarify.

"Listen to me closely," she interrupted again. "Tomorrow when you go to see her, don’t let her minimize your pain — because you were the one who felt it, not her. Now go ahead and say what you were going to say."

Lowering my hands I began. "Mrs. Prats, I never said she had minimized my pain," I clarified, watching her eyes open a little. "But thank you — your words are very encouraging."

From the window table, Mr. Arrit nodded slightly without lifting his gaze from his cup.

Mrs. Prats glanced at him, then back at me. "Do you have plans this afternoon, Ryne? Because some creams and conditioners came in for me, and I wanted to see if you’d like to—"

"I’m going to have dinner at Mr. Arrit’s," I interrupted. "I’m sorry." 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Perfect," she slapped the bar with her palm. "Then I’m coming too. I’ll bring homemade dessert."

Mr. Arrit looked up. "Nobody invited you, Graciela."

"Nobody uninvited me, Héctor," she answered, with the same calm with which she drank her tea. "Besides, this girl needs people around her today — not just a grumpy old man."

"I’m not grumpy."

"Of course not," she smiled at him, very sweetly. "You’re charming."

I looked at the two of them for a second, before she turned back to me.

"You’re like a daughter to me, Ryne," she said with a sweet voice. "I wouldn’t like to imagine you alone tonight. After these difficult days, the least you deserve is a table with people who love you. But just the two of us, alright?"

I didn’t answer right away.

I rested my hands on the bar, looking at the café. The chairs on their marks, the cups with handles facing right, the sign that said open.

"Thank you, Mrs. Prats," I said at last.

She smiled. "I’ll bring a deck of cards too. We need something to do after eating and laughing."

"You know how to play poker?"

"I was the best in my neighborhood for twenty years," she declared, with a dignity completely disproportionate to the context. "I beat several sailors, and those men are real cheats."

"It would be my first time playing poker. It was never allowed at home, and I had no siblings to play with."

"Then the best will teach you," she motioned for me to come closer, whispering in my ear. "One small piece of advice: be good at lying — that’s the secret to winning."

"I don’t think I’m good at it," I confessed. "I always tell the truth — even if it’s only my own version of it."

The bell rang, interrupting our conversation.

Clink. A single chime sounded for several seconds, long enough to make me look up from the bar. It was a tall man, dark-skinned.

He wasn’t a neighbor I recognized, and he was far too old to be a new nephew. I wouldn’t call him a student either, though I wouldn’t rule it out.

He, upon seeing me, smiled — a movement so slight I thought I’d imagined it. He let go of the door, letting the last clink sound.

His steps were as slow as mine when I look at and memorize a new place. He did it for seven seconds before deciding where to sit. He chose the center table.

He set his brown hat on the surface — not on the back of the chair like Mr. Arrit, but on the table itself, brim facing up.

His clothing was ordinary: black trousers with a striped white shirt, everything covered by a brown trench coat. And yet something about him put me on alert.

Mrs. Prats greeted him, always with that lively attitude that belonged only to her. The man returned it, raising his hand. "He’s the new neighbor I was telling you about," she answered. "Looks like he had trouble finding the place — and that’s after I gave him the exact address."

I looked at him for a second, then at her, then back at him. "I see," I said, walking over to take his order.

For some reason, walking in his direction felt dangerous — like a winter rabbit approaching a Canadian lynx.

I arrived, looking at him. Though he wasn’t turning to look at me. "Hello, nice to meet you, sir—"

"Francis," he said. "Just Francis."

"A pleasure, Mr. Francis," I greeted, using the courtesy smile. "What would you like to order?"

"An Americano, please. Miss—"

"Ryne Moore."

"An Americano, Miss Moore."

I nodded, turning toward the coffee machine.

I made it with the same care as always. The exact ratio, the right temperature, without hurrying. I set it on his table without saying anything.

He picked it up, smelling it carefully — he seemed like a coffee connoisseur. That must have been the reason for the smile upon arriving. "It smells delicious," he complimented. "Thank you very much, Norguest."

I stopped.

Just for a second, before looking at him fixedly, narrowing my eyes. It was at that moment that he returned my gaze, and I finally saw them. Brown, calm — the kind that don’t blink more than necessary.

And with the employee-of-the-month smile. "Excuse me," I began, my eyes still tense. "I think you’ve confused me. I’m Moore, not Norguest."

He held my gaze for a moment, before snapping his fingers.

"You’re right," he nodded, scratching the back of his neck with a smile. "My apologies, miss — I confused you with the Norwegian killer." He took his Americano, taking a long sip. "Do you know the story?" he began. "It’s about a sixteen-year-old girl who killed all the women in a school for love."

My attempted smile went tense.

"They say she brought the last body to her beloved, who was so frightened he almost ran," he pulled photos from his vest. "He was found at the girl’s house — dead and covered in bruises, after what is believed to have been two days of continuous torture."

The café abandoned all its noise, replacing it with the screams of those girls.

"No, I don’t know it," I said without looking at him. "I have work to do. Another time you can tell me your stories."

"Of course," he said. "My apologies for the interruption. It’s just that your eyes are identical to those of Clear Norguest — her only and missing daughter."

I nodded, walking away from him.

I walked back to the bar with the same steps as always — without rushing, without changing my rhythm. I left the folded cloth on the surface and rested my hands on the bar.

Mrs. Prats was waiting for me with her tea half-finished and her eyes wide open.

"What were you two talking about, dear?"

"Nothing in particular," I answered, wiping the cloth from left to right. "Local legends."

She nodded, picking up her bag and the last cookie from the pack. "Well, if I don’t hurry I won’t have time to make my pastries. I’ll see you at Héctor’s."

"Of course," I answered. "We’re almost closing anyway."

"Perfect!" Mrs. Prats pointed out. "Then let me get moving — the poker won’t play itself." She smiled. "It’s going to be so much fun, you’ll see. You hear that, Héctor? You have no idea what’s coming! I’m going to leave him with nothing but his socks."

"Are we betting?" I asked.

"Only if you want to, dear," she laughed. "Well, I’ll bring chips just in case you want to spice up the game."

"Thank you, Graciela," said Mr. Arrit from his table. "Be careful on your way."

"You’re welcome, Héctor."

I smiled.

It wasn’t a decided smile. It was one of those that come on their own, without permission, in the moments when the world looks — just for a second — like something manageable.

But then I heard the movement at the center table.

A chair shifting. Footsteps on the wood. The hat picked up from the table with that same economy of gesture with which he did everything.

I watched him leave.

Clink. And just like the first time, he stopped, looking at me for one second more. Clink.

I stayed still behind the bar. I looked at the clock. "Time to close."

Chapter 18: Current Tenderness II