“A random fact?”I murmur, glancing down at the ground.
My foot nudges a small stone near my shoe, smooth and pale against the darker gravel.I bend and pick it up without really thinking, rolling it between my fingers, feeling its weight.
“What do you want to know about?”
“Anything.”The way she says it—simple, open—tightens something in my chest.
I turn the stone over in my palm, rubbing my thumb along its edges.
“Okay,” I say finally.“Male penguins propose with pebbles.They’ll spend days searching for the right one, carrying it around until they find a female worth giving it to.And if she accepts it…” I glance at the stone in my hand, then back at her.“That’s it.They’re mates.”
I remember reading it somewhere years ago and thinking how stupidly beautiful it was.Just the act of choosing something small and offering it like it matters.
Before I can overthink it, I hold the stone out to her.It feels stupid and reckless and right all at once.She hesitates for half a second, then takes it, curling her fingers around it.When she looks up at me again, her smile is different—gentler, touched with something quiet and unspoken.
“So, penguins huh?”She says finally.
I shrug, but I can’t stop the smile pulling at my mouth.
“You said random fact.”
Her laughter softens into a smile—small, warm, real—and something settles in my chest, like I’ve won something I didn’t even know I was playing for.
I clear my throat.“Come on,” I say as the clock in the town square chimes.“There’s somewhere else I want to take you.”
Librería Mediterráneo is tucked awayon a narrow side street, the kind of place you'd walk past a dozen times without noticing.But inside, it's a bibliophile's dream—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books in multiple languages, comfortable reading nooks, and the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to spend entire days getting lost in stories.
"Buenos días," I say to the owner, an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses who's become something of a friend over the past few months."¿Todavía tienes algunas ediciones especiales de clásicos disponibles?"
Nora stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"You speak Spanish?Fluently?”
"Luiza started giving me lessons when I first got here," I explain, and I don't miss the way her expression changes at the mention of Luiza's name."It seemed like a good idea to actually communicate with people instead of just pointing and hoping for the best."
I'm about to explain who Luiza is, what she means to me, when the bookstore owner returns with a small collection of leather-bound volumes.
"Ah, perfecto," I say, selecting two from the collection.
I hand Nora a special edition ofPride and PrejudiceandWuthering Heights, watching her face light up as she runs her fingers over the embossed covers.
"Dad lovedWuthering Heights," she says softly, and something in her voice tells me there's a story there I don't know yet.“He loved that book in a way that didn’t make sense to me when I was younger.I thought it was just dramatic.All that longing, all that pain.”
She exhales, a small, shaky laugh.
“He told me once that it wasn’t about the drama.It was about recognizing the one person who feels like home to you—even when you don’t want them to.Because some people are just bound.Not because it’s easy or tidy but because they just match in a way you can’t undo or make sense of.”
She swallows, eyes flicking away from mine.
I hand the owner fifty euros for the books, and Nora immediately protests.
"Nate, no.That's too much."
"Relax.Consider it an investment in that big ass library you'll have one day."
“The one you promised to build me?”
“Yeah, that one.”
