As Mauricio continued enthusiastically describing the possible implications of the Pirate Island texts, his brown eyes shining with the passion of a discoverer, Lysandra watched him. There was something about the way his face animated, the natural confidence with which he expounded his theories, that magnetic energy that seemed to effortlessly attract attention. And suddenly, like a superimposed image, Mauricio's face vanished for an instant and was replaced by another, one pulled from the most closely guarded archives of her memory.
A young man. Horacio.
The memory transported her to the bustling halls of La Salle University, years ago, before his specialization in maps and ancient treasures had become the focus of her existence. Horacio had been a star in his generation. Not only because of his undeniable physical attractiveness—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile that lit up his dark, intelligent eyes and unruly black hair that always seemed to fall over his forehead—but because of an overwhelming charisma that made him a born leader. Professors admired him, his classmates followed him. He organized study groups, led class debates with an eloquence and passion that left many breathless, and always seemed to have a kind word or a witty joke to lighten the mood.
And Horacio had noticed her.
Lysandra vividly remembered his overtures, subtle at first, then more direct. An invitation to join his study group for a particularly difficult art history exam. "We could decipher the mysteries of the Renaissance together, Lysandra," he had said, his voice carrying a hint of mischief and a warmth that she had felt like a flame too close. Casual comments in the library, seeking her opinion on some text. Once, he'd even invited her to a classical guitar concert downtown, saying the music reminded him of the "serene depth" she projected.
She had invariably pushed him away. Or, more accurately, pushed herself away.
"Thank you, Horatio, but I prefer to study alone," she'd replied, her voice colder than she'd intended, her violet eyes already fixed on the pages of a heavy tome on medieval cartography. "I have a lot to cover." Or a hasty excuse about a prior commitment when he suggested coffee after class. His every attempt was met with a neat and polite, but insurmountable barrier. She concentrated fiercely on her scrolls, her maps, on the lives of explorers and scholars dead for centuries, using her studies as a shield against any distraction, especially one as powerfully human and engaging as Horatio. Deep down, perhaps, there was also the fear that he, like everyone else, would be overwhelmed or repelled by the strange stillness and intensity she knew she emanated, by the echoes that made her different.
The image of Horacio, with his confident smile slightly veiled by confusion at her last rejection, vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a bitter, almost imperceptible aftertaste in Lysandra's mouth. An echo of her own past, of the choices that had led her to the disciplined solitude of her present. The shadow of the dream, with its lament for a love unlived, seemed to whisper in her ear.
She blinked, and Mauricio's animated face came back into focus before her, his hands gesticulating as he described the possible route of a lost galleon. Dulce listened at her side, a calm, smiling presence.
"...so, if these texts really do hold a key to that wreck," Mauricio was saying, oblivious to Lysandra's mental journey, "imagine the value, not just monetary, but historical. It could rewrite a small part of the history of piracy in the Gulf."
Lysandra nodded, forcing herself to reconnect with the conversation, the professional regaining control. But beneath the surface, Horacio's unexpected visit to her memory had left a new crack in her armor, a silent question about the paths not taken and the echoes of opportunities she herself had silenced.