HENRY woke, disoriented for a moment as he tried to place himself, the blur of dreams still clinging to him. For a moment he lay there, bewildered, the ceiling unfamiliar in the dim gray light. What’s going on? He reached for the clock on the nightstand. Six o’clock. A little later than his usual rising time, but nothing out of the ordinary.
From somewhere in the house—likely the kitchen—came music, pulsing with rhythm and energy. A beat that seemed far too alive for this early hour. He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, tugging on his bathrobe in haste. His head felt heavy, and the fog of sleep made every movement clumsy. Even the simple act of opening the door and stepping into the hallway demanded more focus than it should.
Halfway down the hall he stopped short. A woman’s voice, strong and lilting, rose above the music. Spanish words, joyful and rolling, filled the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
He tilted his head, listening. “Ven conmigo, el día comienza… baila, baila, mi corazón despierta…”
The words wrapped around the rhythm, playful and intoxicating. Henry eased forward, curiosity pushing him toward the kitchen. He leaned around the doorframe and froze.
There was Camila, still swallowed up in the oversized pajamas, barefoot on the worn wooden floor, dancing in a loose, carefree rhythm. Her hair swung with each turn, and in her hand she held a wooden spoon, brandishing it like a microphone. The scene was so unexpected, so full of life, that Henry blinked twice to be sure he was truly awake.
It took several long seconds before she noticed him. When she did, she froze mid-step, caught between embarrassment and amusement. Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes sparkled with mischief at his stunned expression.
“Good morning!” Camila shouted over the music, then waved toward the speaker. “Alexa, lower the volume!” The rhythm softened at once, and she turned back to Henry, her tone gentle now. “Sorry—I couldn’t sleep any longer, so I thought I’d make some breakfast. I hope you do breakfast…”
Henry lingered in the doorway, still trying to make sense of the sight before him. Words didn’t come easily, so he simply nodded.
“Smells great,” he managed. “What is it?”
“It’s a recipe my grandfather taught me,” she said, turning back to the sizzling pan with a little flourish of the spoon. “Huevos pericos. Eggs, tomato, scallions, salt, pepper, maybe a little cilantro. Found it all in your pantry.” She glanced back at him, sheepish now. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Fine,” he said, though the word came out more dazed than reassuring. “Fine.” His eyes studied her a moment longer before he asked, “So, your grandfather was from Colombia?”
Camila’s body, which had still been swaying unconsciously to the beat of the music, went still. She looked at him, surprised.
“I spent some time over there,” Henry explained quickly, sensing her hesitation. “I worked at the American Embassy in Bogotá. Cybersecurity specialist. That skill still pays my bills today.” He gave a small, almost wistful smile. “And I loved the food over there.”
Her posture eased. She let out a quiet laugh. “Small world,” she said, turning back to her pan. Then, almost teasingly, “How about a latte?”
“You can do that too?” he asked, arching a brow.
She shot him a playful look over her shoulder. “Well, I was a top-notch barista in a previous life.”
Henry chuckled, the last of his sleep-fog lifting. “I would love a latte,” he said, still astonished at how the morning had turned upside down.
Camila moved with easy confidence, already familiar with the espresso machine they had talked about the night before. She bent down to find a cup first, pausing with a glance toward Henry.
“¿Dónde encuentro las tazas de café, Abuelito?” she asked, spoon still in hand.
Henry, pulling silverware from a drawer, answered without missing a beat. “Cupboard above the coffee machine, left-hand side.”
Camila smiled, opened the cupboard, and selected a large cup. Then she set about her task with practiced grace. The faint clink of metal, the hiss of the machine warming, and the rich aroma of freshly ground beans soon filled the kitchen. Henry inhaled deeply, the scent carrying him back to Bogotá mornings long ago. The machine growled and sputtered, releasing a stream of dark liquid that gleamed like polished wood. A moment later, the steamer roared to life, its sharp hiss softening into a rhythmic whoosh as she frothed the milk.
Meanwhile, Henry busied himself with the small rituals of order—laying out forks, knives, and napkins at the kitchen table, his movements steady, deliberate, as if anchoring himself against the unexpected swirl of energy in his house.
A minute later, Camila turned, graceful as a dancer, and placed a latte in front of him, the creamy surface still swirling with foam.
Henry sat down, the warmth of the cup seeping into his palms. Camila returned to her pan on the stove, quickly filling two plates with the colorful scramble. She carried them over and set one before him, then slipped into her chair with a glass of milk in hand.
She lifted her fork, ready to take a bite, but stopped midway. Her eyes fixed on him, as if a delayed realization had just struck.
“You speak Spanish?” she asked in amazement.
Henry shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “I understand it, but I was told never to speak it. Apparently my pronunciation was so far off that nobody understood me.”
Camila stared for a beat, torn between shock and amusement. Finally, she gave the smallest shake of her head, lips pressed in a half-smile, and turned back to her plate. Without another word, she began to eat.
Henry lifted the cup and took a slow sip of the latte. The warmth spread through him instantly, the balance of strong espresso and creamy milk exactly as he remembered it should be. He set the cup down, exhaling softly.
“I’ll be damned,” he said with quiet conviction, “if this isn’t the best latte I’ve had in years.”
Camila’s lips curved into a pleased smile. “Gracias,” she said, almost shyly, though her eyes glowed with pride.
Henry studied her for a moment, then added, “And you have a beautiful singing voice, if I may say so.”
A faint flush touched her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured again, her tone softer now. She finished the last bites of her breakfast, then leaned back in her chair. For a while she simply let herself watch him—his steady movements, the way he ate with genuine appreciation, the quiet satisfaction on his face.
It felt good, she realized, to share this small, ordinary morning with someone.
But something weighed on her mind. When Henry finished his plate, Camila rose quietly and carried the dishes to the sink. She set them down with care, then turned to face him.
“Risking the chance of spoiling an otherwise pleasant morning,” she began cautiously, “there’s something I need to ask.”
Henry looked up, curious but wary.
She drew in a deep breath. “I know we’ve both been through some heavy emotions since I landed here, and I thought maybe today should be a pause from all that. But last night…” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right words, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if they might be written there.
“You said something that kept me awake for hours.” Her eyes glistened now, and Henry felt a ripple of unease.
“I don’t want to stir up painful memories,” she continued, her voice trembling, “but I need to know. Because I do care for you.” Henry blinked, clearly surprised by her admission.
Camila looked momentarily confused, as if surprised by what she had just blurted out. “Yes, I do,” she muttered, more to herself than to Henry. Then she straightened, pulling herself back together.
She met his eyes at last. “Who is Alice?” she asked gently.
Henry froze, the question hitting harder than he could have prepared for. For a moment, silence hung between them. Then his face shifted—shock melting into anger. He turned his gaze away, pushed back his chair, and strode toward the doorway. But just before stepping out, he stopped. Head bowed, he lingered there, caught between flight and confrontation.
Slowly, he turned back to her. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost weary. “Make me another latte, will you?”
Camila watched him carefully, her concern deepening, but said nothing. She moved to the espresso machine, her hands steady though her heart raced. The hiss of steam filled the silence.
When the latte was ready, she placed it in front of him. Henry wrapped his hands around the cup, took a slow sip, and stared into the swirling foam as if it might tell him how to begin.
They sat in silence for several minutes—Henry lost in thought, Camila patient, waiting, her eyes fixed on him with quiet resolve.
“How do you know about Alice?” he asked at last, his voice gentle, almost inviting her to continue.
Camila hesitated, her fingers tightening around her glass. “Last night, we both drifted off in front of the TV. When I woke, I said goodnight to you.” She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I thought you were asleep—and maybe you were. But as I reached the stairs, I heard you murmur, ‘Good night, Alice.’” She paused, her eyes searching his. “You called me Alice.”
Henry gave a slow nod, as if confirming something to himself. “And a few minutes ago, you called me Abuelito.”
Camila blinked, surprised by the connection.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he continued quietly, “that means ‘Grandpa.’”
She nodded, realizing he was right.
Henry leaned back, his gaze distant for a moment. “I suppose the Lord had something in mind when He sent you here,” he said, almost to himself. Then, meeting her eyes, he added with a trace of weary humor, “You remind me of the sorcerer’s apprentice—you’re calling up ghosts you might not be able to control.”
His breath left him in a long exhale. “So be prepared. It’s a sad story.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “And once you’ve heard it, you’ll understand why your arriving here is… complicated for me.”
Henry’s eyes lingered on her, heavy with the weight of memory. He opened his mouth as if to begin, then let the breath out slowly and shook his head.
“Not now,” he said softly. “I’m not avoiding it, Camila. But if I start, it won’t be a short story. And I’ve got some errands waiting—chores outside, the horses need tending.”
Camila’s head snapped up. “Horses? You have horses?”
The corner of Henry’s mouth twitched at her astonishment.
She went on, her voice catching with emotion. “My Abuelito grew up with horses. He always told me that someday—someday—we’d have them too.”
Henry leaned back, a quiet smile breaking through his solemn expression. “Well, there’s another sign then,” he said, almost reverently. “Another indication the Lord had a reason for bringing you here.”
Camila swallowed hard, her eyes wide, caught between wonder and disbelief.
Henry reached for his cup, nodding toward the window where pale daylight was spreading across the snow. “This afternoon, after the work is done, we’ll sit. I’ll tell you about Alice. All of it.”
He let out a groan as he pushed himself up. “Guess I’d better get dressed.”
