2:52 a.m.
Camila was wiping down the tables. Mateo was making tortilla dough. Ever since Ana arrived, the kitchen felt different. Warmer.
A deflated balloon sat on the table. It had been patched with tape. “For decoration,” Mateo said.
Creeeak. The door opened at 2:59. This time, there was no wind. No smell. Silence.
3:05 a.m. A man walked in. He was in his forties. Neat shirt. Slacks. Polished shoes. But his eyes... they were empty. Like he hadn't slept in three days.
He sat down. Silent. He didn't order. Didn't say a word. He only took out his wallet. Opened it. Closed it. Opened it. Closed it.
Mateo watched him from the kitchen. “Welcome, sir.” The man nodded. “Yeah.”
Camila whispered, “Who is that, Mateo?” “Don't know. But he's hungry. You can tell by his shoulders.”
Mateo cooked. He didn't ask any questions. Today, he cooked on instinct. Meat. Rice. Beans. Chilies. Eggs. Plato del Día. The usual menu. Home cooking.
Fifteen minutes later, he set it down in front of the man.
The man ate. Fast. Greedily. Like he hadn't eaten in a week. When he was halfway through, he stopped. He opened his wallet again.
Inside was a photograph. A picture of him and a woman, very pregnant.
His hands trembled.
“My name is Daniel.” His voice was hoarse. “I'm a truck driver.” Mateo sat across from him. He didn't eat.
Daniel pointed to the photograph. “This is my wife. Maria. Ten years ago. She was about to give birth. I was late. Traffic. When I got to the hospital... it was too late. For both of them.”
He closed the wallet. Tears fell onto the plate. “I blamed the roads. Blamed the traffic. Blamed God. But who I blamed most... was myself. If only I'd left ten minutes earlier.”
He started eating again. But he couldn't taste it anymore. “For ten years, I haven't gone home. The house is empty. I sleep in my truck. Eat at roadside diners. Anything so I don't have to remember.”
Mateo stayed silent. He understood that feeling all too well.
Daniel finished the plate. Clean. “It was good, son. It tasted like... like home cooking I've never had.”
He held out five hundred pesos. “Keep the change.” Then he stood up. He was about to leave.
He stopped halfway to the door. “Hey, if... if I go home to that house. And then I cook for them. Do you think they'll forgive me?”
Mateo stood. “Cook first, sir. As for forgiveness... that's for later.”
Daniel nodded and left. His back was still hunched. But his steps weren't as light as before.
Thud. Something fell from his pocket.
The photograph.
3:40 a.m. Camila picked up the photograph. She stared at it for a long time. “Poor man.”
Mateo placed the photograph on the corner table, beside Ana's spoon. “Just in case. He might come back looking for it.”
Whoosh. Dust fell. This time, it didn't swirl. It went straight to the floor. Its shape: a truck.
The ninth clean circle.
Mateo wrote in the notebook.
Chef's Notes, Day 7: Daniel = Plato del Día = Blaming himself for ten years. 9 circles. Left his photograph behind. That means he'll come back.
Camila said, “Mateo, why does everyone who comes in... carry a ten-year-old wound?” Mateo thought for a moment. “Because this restaurant has been closed for ten years. Maybe... it waited ten years, too, to open again.”
4:10 a.m. They cleaned up the kitchen. Camila washed the dishes. Mateo swept.
The broom stopped at the ninth circle. In the middle of the truck-shaped circle... there was one grain of rice. Rice from Daniel's plate.
Mateo picked it up and ate it. It tasted salty. And relieved.
He looked at the photograph on the corner table. The pregnant woman was smiling.
“I hope you find the courage to go home, Daniel,” Mateo whispered.
From the corner of the kitchen came the sound of a spoon again. Clink... clink... Soft. As if in agreement.
On the blackboard, Camila added a small line beneath it: WE ACCEPT STORIES. FREE OF CHARGE.
Bzzzz... The fan turned. Tonight, there were no ghosts. No children. Just an ordinary man with an ordinary wound.
And that was enough.