The restaurant was cozy, with exposed brick and rustic wooden tables. Amber lights hung from the ceiling like motionless fireflies, giving everything a magical feel. Miguel guided me to the table, his hand lightly on my back. Giulia was with Carmen for a few hours, which gave us rare time alone — even if it was just for lunch.
"This was my grandmother's favorite restaurant," he said, already sitting down. "The food here is as good as hers, which is saying a lot."
I smiled, still tasting the bitterness of the morning, but making an effort to immerse myself in this new, lighter, simpler environment.
"She cooked well?" I asked, trying to make conversation.
"She made an Andalusian cocido that would make you cry."
"Then I'm in the right place," I joked.
He smiled, that smile that made his
