2:40 a.m.
Camila had already set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. “Just in case, Chef.” Mateo roasted chiles. Their aroma filled the entire room.
Tonight was strange. There were no dogs barking outside. No trucks. Only the sound of... scraping. Like a broom against asphalt.
Scrape... scrape... scrape...
2:58 a.m. The door opened by itself. What came in wasn't a person. It was a basket.
A huge wicker basket. Filled with marigolds. And behind the basket... there was an old woman.
She was in her eighties. Her back was hunched. Her white hair was tied in a ponytail. Black clothes. A purple shawl. In her hand was a broom made of branches.
“Good evening, Chef.” Her voice was hoarse but clear. Mateo startled. “Good evening, Ma'am.” Camila immediately bowed her head. “Good evening, Abuela.”
The old woman sat down. Not at the table. On the floor. She spread out her shawl and sat on it. “My name is Rosa. I've sold flowers in the plaza for fifty years.”
Mateo said, “What would you like to order, Mrs. Rosa?” Rosa laughed. She had only three teeth left. “I'm not hungry, son. I'm thirsty. Thirsty to see people.”
Mateo was confused. But he still went to the kitchen. He made Agua de Jamaica. Hibiscus water. Sweet. Tart. Refreshing.
He poured it into a clay cup. Added one ice cube.
Rosa drank. Gulp... gulp... “Delicious. Just like before. When my husband was still alive.” She looked around. “The dust has gone down, hasn't it?”
Mateo was startled. “You know about it, Ma'am?” Rosa tapped her broom against the floor. Knock. “I'm the one who sweeps this city every night. Fifty years. I know every speck of dust in San Pueblo. Including the dust here.”
Camila sat on the floor too. “So you know about this restaurant?” Rosa nodded. “I do. It's the home of lost spirits. And the home of the living who are broken.”
She took one marigold from the basket and placed it on the table. “My flowers guide them home. Your cooking heals them once they arrive.”
Rosa was silent for a long time. Then she asked: “Chef, have you seen your son yet?” Mateo caught his breath. “I have, Ma'am. Yesterday.” “He's doing fine. He was the one who asked me to stop by here.”
Rosa pulled a strawberry lollipop from the basket. “This is from him. He said it was for tomorrow. If he comes again.”
Mateo accepted it. His hands were trembling. “Thank you, Ma'am.”
Rosa stood up. She used her broom to walk. Before leaving, she stopped in the doorway. “Son, remember this. Twenty-eight circles. Once they're full... this restaurant will decide whether to stay open... or close forever.”
“Decide what, Ma'am?” Camila asked. “Decide who deserves to be healed,” Rosa said. Then she left. Scrape... scrape... The sound of her broom disappeared into the darkness.
3:30 a.m. Mateo and Camila sat in silence.
Ffffft. Dust fell. But this time, the dust immediately took shape. The shape of an old broom.
The tenth clean circle.
Mateo wrote in his notebook. His hands were still trembling.
Chef's Notes, Day 8: _Rosa = Agua de Jamaica = Guardian of San Pueblo. 10 circles. 18 more. And a time limit.
Camila said, “Chef... what does ‘decide who deserves to be healed’ mean?” Mateo shook his head. “I don't know. But I'm scared.” “Scared of what?” “Scared that someone will come... and I won't be able to cook for them.”
He looked at the strawberry lollipop in his hand. He unwrapped it. Licked it a little. Sweet. Bitter.
On the corner table, the marigold from Rosa... one of its petals fell. It landed right on Daniel's photograph.
As if granting its blessing.
Bzzzz... The fan turned. There were no tears tonight. Only a warning.
And one old woman who had been sweeping this city longer than this restaurant had existed.