It has always been the same.
At quarter past two, the sun slips through the same angle, grazes the corner of table six, and leaves a
A shimmering gold spot on the tablecloth. Every day. Every year. Every century.
Not even the waiters notice it anymore. But that light has seen everything.
He saw the young soldier shaking his mother's hand before leaving. He saw the poet writing down a
between courses, convinced that he would not forget it. He saw a child spill his soup and
She cried as if it were the end of the world, while her father—tough, clumsy, nervous—offered her bread for
first time.
He saw toasts with foreign accents, whispered promises, sweet betrayals.
He also saw how she stopped coming.
It was always at a quarter past two. She arrived punctually, sat alone, and smiled like someone who keeps secrets.
a secret. One day he didn't come back. But the light kept coming, just like before, as if he were still waiting for her.
Botín has changed. The walls, the names, the price of wine.
Only light is faithful.
And every noon, when he crosses table six, it seems that something—a laugh, an absence, a
I remember—it shines for a few seconds and then disappears.
