The gentle warmth of Don Rafael's presence and the resonance of his wise words accompanied her during the first minutes of her journey, a kind of balm on the wound opened by the dream and revelations of the previous day. The black car glided along the avenues of Cancún, the morning sun already beginning to intensify its tropical embrace, painting the sky a brilliant blue above the palm trees and modern buildings that alternated with more traditional constructions. Lysandra looked outside, her professional mind trying to focus on the details of the upcoming meeting, on possible acquisitions, on negotiation strategies.
But the mind, sometimes, is a treacherous sea with undercurrents that pull with unexpected force.
As the car stopped briefly at a traffic light, the murmur of traffic and the bustle of the city faded away. A reflection in the window—perhaps the way the light caught a drop of condensation, or the fleeting movement of a dark cloud in the distant sky—was enough to drag her back. The shadow of the dream, as vivid and terrifying as if she were experiencing it for the first time, rushed at her with the ferocity of a raging wave.
Suddenly, she was no longer in the leather seat of the car, but back on the deck of that phantom sailboat, the icy wind howling in her ears, the bitter taste of salt and fear in her mouth. She felt the creaking of the wood beneath her feet, the brutal impact of the waves sweeping over her, the unfathomable darkness of the ocean claiming her. The air grew thick in her lungs, and anguish, that icy stab of regret for a love unlived, unknown, undelivered with the same intensity she had glimpsed in her father's letters, choked her with renewed force. She saw her own pale hand sinking beneath the murky water, the light of life fading, and the bleak certainty that she was leaving this world without having known the fullness of a connection that transcended her self-imposed loneliness. The shipwreck wasn't just physical; it was the shipwreck of a heart that had never truly dared to set sail.
"Miss Thorne…"
The chauffeur's distant voice, muffled as if coming from the other side of a wall of water, barely registered.
A high-pitched, vibrating beep jolted her.
Lysandra blinked hard, her heart pounding, her breathing labored. The image of the raging sea receded like a rushing tide, leaving behind the desolate shore of her anguish and the familiar interior of the car. The bright Cancún sun, the bustle of the street—everything returned with an almost painful starkness. She sat stiffly, her knuckles white from the tight grip on her bag.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She stared at the screen with unfocused eyes. A message.
Supplier - "Caribbean Antiques": "Lysandra, good morning. I'm already at 'El Cafetal,' next to Mercado 28, with the new catalogs and a couple of pieces I think you'd particularly like. Let me know when you're nearby. Best regards."
The message was from Mauricio, one of her most trusted suppliers, a man with an unerring eye for rarities and forgotten treasures.
Lysandra took a shaky breath, trying to ground her mind back in professional reality. "El Cafetal." Mercado 28. They were close. She looked out the window, recognizing the vibrant, colorful market entrance a short distance away.
"We're almost there, Miss Thorne," the chauffeur said, his voice now clear, oblivious to the internal upheaval she had just experienced. "Just a minute, I reckon."
Just a minute. She had just a minute to compose herself, to push the shadow of sleep back into the darkest corner of her mind and don the mask of the expert appraiser, the astute negotiator, the serene and in-control businesswoman. Just a minute to move from the terror of an existential shipwreck to the mundane reality of antique catalogs and cups of coffee.
She closed her eyes briefly, inhaled deeply of the car's air conditioning, and exhaled slowly, taking with her, or so she hoped, the last vestiges of the icy sea and the taste of regret. Life, with its relentless demands, didn't wait for internal storms to subside.