People kept walking.
A woman dodged her. A man almost kicked her without looking. Nobody stopped.
Then a little girl ran from a small makeshift lemonade stand, picked up the scarf, shook it gently, and took it away.
“Here you go,” he said. “The wind is really rough today.”
Santiago blinked. It had been a long time since anyone had done anything for him without expecting something in return.
—Thank you —he replied.
The girl looked at him with that brutal sincerity that only children possess.
—You look very tired. Are you sick?
Santiago let out a short laugh, surprised by his own laughter.
-Yes a bit.
—Wait for me.
The girl ran back to her little table, where a handwritten sign read: “Abi’s Lemonade – 10 pesos.” She returned with a plastic cup and placed it in her hands.
—This one’s free. Because she looks like she needs it.
The lemonade was too sour, with seeds floating in it and more water than sugar. And yet, Santiago felt it was the best thing he’d tasted in years.
Abi sat down next to him and began to talk. She told him that she lived in Iztapalapa with her grandmother Tomasa, that she sold lemonade after school to help with the rent, that she wanted to be an astronaut or a chef, or both at the same time. Santiago, who normally measured each word as if it cost millions, ended up telling him about stars, telescopes, and chess.
They became friends without asking the world for permission.
From then on, they met on the same bench every Wednesday.
Santiago taught him chess. Abi taught him how to laugh again.
Without saying a word, he paid Doña Tomasa’s rent debt and secured an anonymous scholarship for the girl’s school. But he never wanted Abi to see him as a rich man. He wanted her to see him simply as Santiago, the man who loved the stars and lost chess matches to a seven-year-old girl.
However, as that friendship grew, something dark was stirring nearby.
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