“I can imagine,” her mother says. “And how did you feel?”
Rebeca continues the conversation as she walks through the aisles, feeling how every word she utters begins to stir upsomething she’d been trying to keep under control since the night before. Her pulse quickens just remembering it.
For a moment, all that can be heard is the distant murmur of the supermarket and the movement of customers passing by.
“Honey…” her mother says. “I know you had a really hard time when it ended. It was hard for you, harder than you let on to others.”
Rebeca clenches her jaw slightly. The words “it ended” sound like a euphemism too polite for what it really was: sleepless nights, tears, the feeling that a part of herself had been torn away.
“But six years have passed,” her mother continues. “You’ve built a life for yourself. You’ve moved on. You’re a strong woman, Rebeca. Don’t let this take away the peace you came to Santander to find. You told me yourself that you’d found the contract of your dreams. So hold on to it.”
Rebeca doesn’t respond right away. She picks up a bottle of detergent and puts it in the cart, as if the motion could anchor her to the present reality.
“Yes,” she murmurs, though she feels like a complete liar.
“You’ve already gotten past it; now it’s your turn to live happily for yourself, sweetheart.”
The phrase hangs in the air for a few seconds, laden with good intentions that mean very little to her at that moment. Rebeca tries to find within herself the conviction that her mother seems to have so clearly.
Has she gotten over it?
The question pops into her mind with a clarity that feels quite uncomfortable.
She remembers the way her heart pounded in her chest when she saw Martina on the landing. The almost electric sensation that ran through her skin when her fingers brushed against the edge of the door. The treacherous heat that settled in her stomach when she heard her voice. If that’s what it means to have gotten over someone… let someone come and explain it to her.
“Yes, Mom,” Rebeca replies automatically, though she feels that every syllable betrays the truth. “Everything’s fine. Really.”
They talk for a few more minutes about trivial things, and when she hangs up, Rebeca stares at the phone screen for a moment before putting it in her pocket. She leaves the supermarket with the bags in her hand. The air outside is cool and smells of the sea, of saltpeter, and of a freedom that, suddenly, seems illusory to her.
She walks a few more blocks deeper into the neighborhood until she stops in front of a small home decor shop she saw the day before while exploring the area. The window display is filled with ceramic lamps, wooden frames, and small decorative objects that look carefully selected—and perfect for her new home. A discreet sign above the door announces the shop’s name in elegant lettering.
Rebeca goes inside.
The interior is warm and quiet. She listens to the background music—a distant piano—and inhales the scent of the scented candles arranged on a central table. She leaves her bags in one of the lockers by the entrance and begins to wanderaround the place with curiosity, trying to let the surroundings distract her.
There are shelves full of handmade notebooks, glass vases, and small plants in clay pots. As she examines some picture frames, her mind inevitably returns to the conversation with her mother.
“You’ve gotten over it now.”
Rebeca picks up a ceramic object and turns it slowly in her hands, feeling its cool weight against her palms.
Is that really true?
She tries to imagine Martina as just a neighbor. Someone she might occasionally run into in the elevator, exchange a polite greeting with, and go on with her life without looking back. The idea sounds reasonable in theory. But something inside her resists, a hot knot that tightens every time she remembers her blue eyes. And worst of all, she sometimes wonders who will be part of the equation of that “us.”
“You have to get it out of your head,” she murmurs to herself.
She puts the object back in its place and moves toward another shelf, running her fingers over the smooth surface of a vase.
Just then, the shop door opens.
The soft jingle of the bell hanging above the doorframe cuts through the silence with unexpected clarity. A familiar tingle runs down the back of her neck. Then she hears footsteps, and that unmistakable voice of the woman greeting the shop assistant.
“Good morning. Have you brought in the vanilla candles yet?”
Rebeca freezes. For a second, she considers running out of the store without looking back, but it’s already too late. Her heart begins to pound as she scans the room for a place to hide. She looks to the right, she looks to the left. “Over there.”
She moves toward a tall shelf filled with decorative boxes, trying to position herself with her back to the entrance.
