The weight of the previous night and the secrets in her parents' trunk remained an undercurrent beneath the surface of her professional composure, but Lysandra moved through the first hours of her workday with her characteristic efficiency. The chauffeur drove her through the awakening streets, leaving behind the opulent stillness of her mansion to enter the more earthly pulse of the city.
Her first client of the day was waiting for her in an older area, a neighborhood of cobblestone streets and colonial mansions with vibrantly colored facades and balconies overflowing with bougainvillea. The address led her to a solid wooden door, painted a deep cobalt blue, that seemed to smile at the morning sun. When she touched the heavy bronze iguana-shaped knocker, the door opened almost immediately, as if her arrival had been awaited with joyful anticipation.
"Miss Thorne! Lysandra, my dear! Come in, come in, the morning sun has already blessed this house, but your presence brightens it even more."
The voice was a deep, warm melody, filled with a genuine joy that seemed to vibrate the air. The man who greeted her was Don Rafael, a figure who defied the conventions of age. His skin, a deep shade of tan and weathered by the tropical sun, spoke of a life lived outdoors, and although the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were maps of countless smiles and experiences, his body was still noticeably muscular, his arms strong, and his bearing erect. He wore a crisp white linen guayabera and sandy-colored cotton pants, and his bare feet on the cool terracotta tile floor seemed as natural as the roots of an ancient tree. His thick, gray hair was brushed back, and his dark eyes shone with a mixture of mischief, profound wisdom, and a kindness that enveloped anyone he was near. There was an almost… magical quality about him, not in the sense of tricks or illusions, but in the way he seemed perfectly at one with the world, radiating an energy that made everything around him seem more vibrant, more alive.
The interior of Don Rafael's house was a reflection of his personality: a charming labyrinth of interconnected rooms, interior courtyards filled with lush plants—hanging orchids, leafy ferns, and dwarf palms—and an eclectic collection of Mexican folk art, antique books, and curious objects that seemed to whisper stories of distant places and forgotten times. The air smelled of copal, freshly brewed coffee, and the sweet fragrance of some unknown flower.
"Don Rafael, always a pleasure," Lysandra replied, a faint, genuine smile softening her features. It was impossible not to feel, at least momentarily, relieved of one's burdens in this man's presence. "Thank you for seeing me so early."
"The pleasure is all mine, child. Come, I have prepared a mountain coffee that will awaken your soul," he said, guiding her with a friendly gesture toward an interior courtyard where a small mosaic table waited under the shade of a flamboyan tree.
Lysandra was there to examine a series of pre-Hispanic artifacts that Don Rafael had recently acquired from a private collection, seeking his expert advice on their authenticity and possible provenance. As he poured her coffee into hand-painted clay cups, she began to explain the purpose of her visit, taking cotton gloves and a specialized magnifying glass out of her briefcase.
Don Rafael listened attentively, nodding, his intelligent eyes observing not only the documents she presented, but also Lysandra herself. As she spoke, with her usual precision and knowledge, he gently interrupted.
"You have a particular light today, Lysandra," he commented, his voice devoid of any intrusion, only an observation tinged with affection. "More... intense. Like a star that has spent the night struggling against the clouds, but at dawn shines with renewed clarity, though perhaps a little more... lonely."
Lysandra paused, surprised by the sharpness of her perception. The memory of the dream, the anguish, the weight of her parents' secrets... It must be more transparent than she had thought. She hesitated for a moment before answering, her professionalism fighting the urge to trust that palpable kindness.
"Long nights, Don Rafael," she said finally, with a noncommittal smile. "Work, you know."
He nodded slowly, without pressure, but his eyes seemed to say he understood more than words expressed. "Ah, the work of the soul can also be exhausting," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Then his smile returned, wide and warm. "Well, let's look at the wonders you've brought me. It's always a delight to share history with someone who can hear its whispers as well as you do."
For the next hour, they immersed themselves in examining the artifacts. Lysandra's expertise was evident, her knowledge profound, her hands sure and respectful as she handled the delicate pieces of pottery and obsidian. Don Rafael, at her side, not only observed the process but shared anecdotes, local legends related to the symbols on the pieces, and a philosophy of life that saw history not as something dead, but as a continuous river flowing through the present.
Lysandra found herself absorbing not only the information relevant to her work, but also the serenity and peculiar magic of the old man. His presence was a balm, a pause in the cacophony of her own emotions. When they concluded the initial examination, and Lysandra began to put away her tools, Don Rafael placed a warm, firm hand on hers for a moment.
"Remember, my child," he said softly, his eyes shining with that ancient wisdom, "that even in the darkest storm, the strongest roots cling to the earth and await the light. And sometimes, what seems like a shipwreck is just the universe pushing us toward an unknown, but necessary, shore."
The words, so close to the echo of her mother's story and the imagery of her own dream, struck Lysandra with unexpected force. She looked at him, searching for some hint that he knew more, but his face reflected only deep kindness and genuine concern.
"Thank you, Don Rafael," he managed, his voice a little softer than usual. "I'll keep that in mind."
As they said goodbye and stepped back out into the morning sun, Lysandra felt some of Don Rafael's warmth and strange peace accompanying her. The weight on her soul hadn't disappeared, but perhaps, just perhaps, she had found a small beacon in the growing darkness of her questions. The visit had been more than a simple professional transaction; It had been a reminder that even amidst the arcane and the disturbing, there was also pure goodness and simple wisdom.