The whirlwind of emotions—the pain of the past, the unexpected joy of the present—made Lysandra feel as if she were floating. The need to share the news, to ground it in reality, drove her to seek out Agnes. She left the secret-laden gloom of her parents' suite, her steps now lighter, almost urgent, through the mansion's silent halls.
She found her nanny in the kitchen, a large, bright space that always smelled of spices, fresh fruit, and Agnes's loving care. The morning sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the Talavera tiles and the gleaming copper pots that hung there.
"Nana!" Lysandra exclaimed, her voice still carrying a trace of fresh tears, but now tinged with an excitement Agnes hadn't heard from her in years. "Nana, you won't believe this... Fernando... Fernando just called! He's in Cancún, he just landed. He says he'll arrive in an hour."
To her complete surprise, Agnes didn't show the astonishment Lysandra had expected. Instead, a wide, knowing smile spread across her wrinkled face. She turned from the stove, where a clay pot was steaming fragrantly and familiarly, and with a calmness that disconcerted Lysandra, she said, "I know, my child. Your brother is as predictable as the sunrise when it comes to surprises."
Lysandra blinked. "Did... did you know?"
Agnes chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. "A little bird told me about it last night, just before you left for the museum. I wanted it to be a surprise for you this morning. That's why," she pointed proudly toward the kitchen table, where two ceramic mugs waited next to the steaming pot, "I'm already preparing your favorite hot chocolate, that thick one, with a hint of cinnamon, just like your grandmother made it."
And then Lysandra saw it. On a wooden board, covered with a white linen cloth, was a loaf of bread. Not just any loaf of bread. Her heart leapt.
"And this," Agnes continued, her blue eyes shining with joy and a deep nostalgia, "I brought this especially this morning. I had to go all the way to Region 101 very early. I know it's your favorite, both of ours." She uncovered the loaf, and the aroma that was released filled the kitchen, a heavenly perfume that was simultaneously sweet and slightly salty, with an unmistakable hint of fresh yeast and home. It was the famous water bread from that specific bakery, with its golden, crispy crust and a crumb so white and soft it seemed to melt when you looked at it.
"Because, well," Agnes's voice softened, heavy with emotion, "your mom... Elara... how she loved this bread. She said there was nothing in the world like a warm slice with a little butter and a cup of hot chocolate. And that same feeling, that smell of simple happiness that fills the house when I buy it... is the same one I share every time. It's like having her here with us for a little while."
Lysandra approached the table, mesmerized. The aroma of the bread was a direct caress to her soul. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. It was a smell that instantly transported her back to her childhood: Sunday mornings, the sun streaming through the window of another, smaller kitchen, and her mother, Elara, with a radiant smile, cutting generous slices of that same bread, its incredibly soft texture yielding under the knife, the crumb fluffy and white as a cloud, releasing that warm, comforting scent that signified security, love, family.
She could almost feel the softness of the bread between her fingers, the way it compressed slightly before returning to its shape, the promise of that unique, slightly sweet taste that melted in her mouth. In that aroma, in that vivid sensory memory, she connected in a new and deeply moving way with her mother's love. Not with the passionate and complex love of letters and photographs, but with the everyday, tender, and constant love that manifested itself in the small things, in shared pleasures, in a simple piece of bread that could evoke so much happiness.
Tears sprang to her eyes again, but this time they were tears of a different emotion: a mixture of gratitude, sweet nostalgia, and a renewed connection to the legacy of love her parents, despite all their secrets and pain, had left her.
"Yes, Nana," Lysandra said, her voice barely a whisper, but filled with a new warmth. "Mom loved it."
They stood for a moment in silence, the two women wrapped in the scent of bread and chocolate, united by the memory of Elara and the joyful anticipation of Fernando's arrival. The mansion, which moments before had seemed like a mausoleum of painful secrets, now felt a little more like home, a place where love, in its simplest and most enduring forms, could still flourish.