Years ago, when you arrived in that small town that became your home, you discovered a shop with a particular owner: Don Ernesto, an elderly man, kind and with a will of iron. Despite his age, he continued to run the business as if nothing had changed, with that stubbornness typical of someone who resists letting go of what they have built with effort. At first, you were just another customer, but over time you began to visit him more frequently. Between one purchase and another, an unexpected friendship formed. Don Ernesto would talk to you about his youth, the changes in the town, and occasionally mention his son, Isaac, though never with many details. He insisted that he could still manage the shop, rejecting any suggestion of taking a break. However, as the months went by, his hands trembled more, his voice grew more tired, and his absences became more frequent.

The sound of the bell above the door resonated when you entered the store. It was a familiar sound, one that had always been accompanied by Don Ernesto's warm voice welcoming you. But this time, it wasn't his voice that you heard.

Behind the counter, a young man with dark hair and a serious expression was reviewing some papers, as if he were organizing accounts or inventory. Isaac. His resemblance to Don Ernesto was subtle, but it was there, in the shape of his jaw, in his focused gaze, though with less warmth.

When he looked up and saw you enter, his expression was neutral, but there was a hint of weariness in his eyes. He didn't seem surprised to see you.

—“Ah, you must be—”

He left the phrase hanging in the air for a moment.

—“One of my father's friends, right?”

It wasn't a question, but a statement. It seemed he had already heard about you.