Candado and Héctor had returned home after a long day in Kanghar, following the trial.

  “Home at last.”

  “See you, Héctor.”

  “Likewise.”

  Candado opened his front door. Suddenly, tentacles erupted from inside, trying to strike him, but he elegantly dodged them.

  “I missed this… What are you doing in my house, Grenia?”

  “Ha! I see I still can’t fool you.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I sensed you.”

  “…Right.”

  Candado stepped in, closing the door behind him.

  “Fine. What’s the visit about?”

  “A visit. I wanted to see Hammya, but I couldn’t find her.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, the lady…”

  “Mm!”

  “Mrs. Barret.”

  “Mm.”

  “She told me she was with the Traffic Lights and would be back any moment.”

  “And?”

  “I was going to leave, but I got attached to this little creature.”

  Candado held out his hands.

  “Give me my sister.”

  “Ha ha. No.”

  “O’ P?hner.”

  Grenia drew Karen in with her tentacles and hugged her tight.

  “She’s mine now.”

  Candado contained the urge to yell. He didn't want to frighten the little girl.

  “Just this once.”

  Just then, someone knocked on the door.

  “What? Oh, that must be Hammya.”

  Candado opened the door again.

  “Hello.”

  There she stood, with her green mane and a dress the same shade.

  “Always coordinating, huh?”

  Hammya froze.

  “Candado…”

  Then she threw herself into a hug.

  “Don’t exaggerate. I was only gone a day.”

  “It didn’t feel like it to me.”

  “…Fine.”

  Candado peeled away from her.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change. And I don’t plan on waking up.”

  He gave Hammya two kisses on the cheek and made to leave.

  “What about me?” Grenia asked.

  Candado stopped.

  “Seriously? Why?”

  “The question is: why not?”

  Candado turned back, gave Grenia a kiss on the cheek, and one on Karen’s forehead (just because).

  “Happy? Now leave me alone.”

  He climbed the stairs to his room. As he put his hand on the doorknob, a voice stopped him.

  “I’m glad you’ve returned.”

  Candado looked to his left.

  “I was cleaning Uzoori’s stable,” Clementina said.

  “Clementina. How are you?”

  “Me? Fine.”

  Candado walked over and placed his hand on the android’s cheek.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, right?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  He touched her forehead.

  “Mm… it seems your body adapted well to the changes.”

  “I’m glad you added improvements to my system.”

  “And I’m glad they worked.”

  “Cybernetically correct, young master.”

  Candado sighed.

  “You’re still unbearable.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He stared at her and let out a small smile.

  “Candado?”

  Without another word, he hugged her.

  “I’m glad to have you here.”

  Clementina returned the embrace.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Candado entered his room. Everything was in order. He took off his cap and snapped his fingers. The same routine as always.

  “Time for sleep.”

  He dropped onto the bed and rested his head on the pillow. He snapped his fingers again, and the blanket covered him. A good way to leave worries behind.

  Hours later, Candado woke up. It was five in the morning; the sun had barely risen. He looked at the desk and then the ceiling, trying to remember if he had anything pending or if he could keep sleeping. He got up, checked the almanac, and saw it: Saturday. He had to go see Natalia.

  He sighed. It was two hours away, but he would never stand her up.

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  He composed himself, snapped his fingers, and dressed again. He took his cap and left, closing the door behind him. He walked through the silent hallway of the house and passed Hammya’s room. She was sleeping. Candado smiled at the sight and closed the door carefully.

  He went downstairs, prepared a simple breakfast—mate and bread—and that's when he saw Clementina activate again. Barely twenty minutes had passed.

  “Good morning, young master.”

  “Good morning. It’s a bit early to be bothering people, isn't it?”

  Clementina smiled and walked past.

  “Have fun with Miss Natalia.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Candado replied, taking a sip of mate.

  The android smiled again and began preparing breakfast for the Barret family.

  “Well, I have to go,” he said, setting down the mug.

  Clementina approached and gently took the mate from his hands.

  “Be sure to take care.”

  “It’s the same route as always, stop telling me that.”

  “I enjoy wishing you good fortune.”

  “Suit yourself,” Candado replied. Before leaving, he added, “Have a good day.”

  Clementina closed her eyes and accepted the compliment with a slight smile.

  Candado left the house and headed straight for Natalia’s home.

  He arrived at Natalia’s front door with a contained yawn.

  He checked his phone: 5:50 in the morning. Although Natalia’s family was accustomed to his visits at that hour, he felt it was rude to knock so early. So, he skirted the house and went to the garden, where her bedroom window faced.

  The wall wasn’t high, and he scaled it effortlessly. He descended carefully into the garden and gently tapped on the window.

  To his surprise, there was a light on. An unmistakable sign that she was already awake.

  He tapped again, and the curtain slid to the side with the precision of a rehearsed gesture. Behind it, Natalia appeared: a faint smile, an impeccable white shirt, a fitted black vest. She looked at him calmly and greeted him, before unlocking and opening the window.

  “Good morning, Candado.”

  “I noticed.”

  She closed the window with a measured, unhurried movement.

  Candado waited by the garden gate, and when it opened, Natalia received him with a kiss on the cheek, her usual greeting. He, in contrast, only nodded.

  Unbothered, she invited him in.

  Inside, Candado took off his cap and murmured:

  “Thank you for having me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Natalia replied with a precise, almost choreographed smile.

  He put his cap back on and followed her to her room. Everything was prepared for him: the armchair, the plastic mat, the easel, and a large white canvas waiting, perfectly centered.

  “Any pose? Cap on or off?” he asked.

  “Standard. Cap on… and yes,” she replied. Then she picked up a clear plastic cup, carefully decorated, and held it out to him. “Holding this.”

  Candado watched her, one eyebrow raised.

  “I suppose the apple will go here.”

  “You’ll see that when the work is finished.”

  He sighed and sat in the armchair.

  “Fine, do it.”

  Natalia looked at the clock: 5:59.

  She waited.

  When the second hand hit twelve—six o’clock sharp—she began.

  She stopped smiling. Her body changed rhythm: slow breathing, fixed gaze. She took the pencil and, with measured movements, began to sketch.

  Candado, glancing to his right, saw a book carefully placed within his reach.

  Natalia nodded, wordlessly.

  He took it, understanding the gesture.

  Silence filled the room. Only the scratch of the pencil on the canvas and the soft turning of pages could be heard. Every so often, she looked up, observed, measured, and drew again.

  Several minutes passed. Finally, she set the pencil aside and took a deep breath.

  “You can move now.”

  Candado lowered the cup, closed the book.

  While preparing the colors, she hummed something… and then began to sing.

  “I never understood the laughter… the jokes aren't funny to me.”

  Candado looked up. A smile hinted at his face.

  “A new song. Interesting.”

  “But sometimes I look at you,” Natalia continued, her eyes still on the canvas, “and your face is honest too.”

  Candado turned a page, still listening.

  “You don't laugh, you don't cry, even when your soul looks weary… that says more about you than a thousand words thrown into the air.”

  Natalia’s voice became a soft thread, and her brushes seemed to move on their own.

  “Your eyes hold something that won't leave,” she continued. “A small wound, but very deep and quiet. So I paint… I paint what I don't dare to ask. I put an apple in your hand. No one understands why, but you do.”

  Candado closed his eyes for a few seconds.

  She went on.

  “My hands say what my voice can't. And on the canvas, you are different: there are shadows like Berni’s, dry strokes like Schiele’s. It hurts me when you are wounded, even though I don't know how to be with you. So I paint your silence… as if that could help you just a little.”

  He watched her in silence. Every word was a portrait in itself.

  “Metaphors,” Candado murmured.

  “I feel strange when someone cries,” Natalia said, without looking at him. “Because I want to cry too. It’s not logical, I know, but I feel everything as if it were mine. I don’t know how to console with words. Words tangle me up. They confuse me. But colors… they obey me.”

  Her voice trembled slightly, but her brushes did not.

  “And when you are sad and don't say it, my brushes tell me.”

  Candado took a deep breath. She was painting his eyes on the canvas.

  “I don't know how to talk,” she continued, “but I paint. And on the canvas, you are different. Your sadness looks like Modigliani, so beautiful it takes my breath away. Torres García helps me order you, Quinquela gives me a little courage. And even though I don't know how to act, I try to take care of you… without touching.”

  Then she began to hum, in a language of colors and pauses.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m from another world,” she whispered, “but when I paint you, it seems like we are the same. I don't know how to talk, but I paint. And there I can hug you. Not with words, not with gestures, but with strokes you won't erase. And though I never say it out loud… I want to take care of you.”

  She paused for a moment. She looked at Candado.

  He didn't know what to say.

  It was the first time he had heard her speak like this.

  “I…” he began, but she interrupted him softly, as if she hadn’t noticed the attempt.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m from another world, but when I paint you, it seems like we are the same. Because even if you don't say anything, I listen to you without you speaking. I don't know how to talk like everyone else, but art lends me its voice. Your pain becomes a cloudy sky, and I paint it, stroke by stroke.”

  She closed her eyes, put down the brush, and finished the song.

  “My hands say what my voice can't. And on the canvas, you are different: there are shadows like Berni’s, dry strokes like Schiele’s. It hurts me when you are wounded, even though I don't know how to be with you. So I paint your silence… as if that could help you just a little. I don't know how to talk, but I paint. And there, there I can hug you. Not with words, not with gestures, but with strokes you won't erase. And though I never say it out loud… I want to take care of you.”

  The canvas slowly turned.

  Candado looked at it and was speechless.

  It was him. Sitting, with the cup on his leg, reading. But the apple… this time it was on his heart.

  “I like it,” he finally said.

  “Predictable,” she replied with a small smile.

  Candado smiled too.

  Natalia tilted her head, analyzing him.

  “Lately I see your smile a lot. It’s… unexpected. I’m still adapting.”

  “I understand. The music… you always sing songs by your favorite bands, but this time it was different. More personal.”

  “I composed it myself,” she admitted. “It’s something I always wanted to tell you. When you were overshadowed, I tried to lift your spirits. I was clumsy, I know.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Candado said, his voice low.

  “For a long time, I felt like I should do something. Then I saw Hammya. She was… too chaotic for me.”

  “I understand that,” Candado murmured.

  “It annoyed me a little when you did that foolish thing that day, when we were in that world looking for Amabaray.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That's better,” she said, and for the first time, she seemed nervous. “But if the darkness ever feels heavy, please, please… talk to me. I can listen. I want to listen.”

  Candado looked at her, tenderly.

  “Can I break protocol?”

  Natalia hesitated.

  “…You can.”

  He moved closer and hugged her.

  Natalia’s body tensed, almost rigid. Then, awkwardly, she returned the gesture, her hands barely resting on his back.

  “Thank you, Nati.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but… if you don’t let go, I’m going to cry.”

  Candado immediately pulled away.

  “Sorry.”

  She hugged herself, taking a deep breath, before returning to her usual smile.

  “Thank you for coming. Shall we do this next month?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Do you want the painting?”

  “Better keep it.”

  “You’re still difficult.”

  “You know me.”

  Natalia looked at the clock. Seven o’clock.

  “Good, we’re finished,” she said, with precision.

  She approached and gave him two kisses on the cheeks.

  “See you next month. Same time, same armchair.”

  “It’s good to come here once a month.”

  “Those are the rules.”

  Candado sighed with irony.

  “You’re still difficult.”

  “Of course. You know me.”

  He smiled.

  “See you.”

  She nodded and opened the door for him. Her gesture was polite, yet distant. But Candado understood her.

  On his way out, he saw Clara and Petro, Natalia’s parents, just waking up. Clara was young, with black hair and brown eyes; Petro, a man with a long mustache.

  “Nice day,” Candado greeted them.

  “Would you like to have breakfast with us?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, please,” Petro added.

  Candado smiled and politely declined.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I need to get some sleep.”

  “I understand. Send our regards to your parents,” Clara said.

  “I will, ma’am.”

  “Thanks for spending time with Nati,” Petro added.

  “An unnecessary comment, but I appreciate it,” Candado replied elegantly.

  He said goodbye by tipping his cap.

  The seven o’clock sun was beginning to filter through. He breathed in the fresh air and murmured:

  “Today was a nice day.”

  Then he added, with his usual irony:

  “Now turn off the sun.”

  Candado walked on, humming the song Natalia had sung to him. Although his face maintained the same serious expression as always, there was a different light in his eyes. The same tones she had used in her painting.

  Meanwhile, Natalia placed the painting in front of the window so the sun would hit it. Then she opened a small door in her room and went down the stairs to a well-lit basement.

  Dozens of paintings were there: portraits of her friends, organized, classified, labeled with names.

  Candado and Viki were the ones she had the most of. Germán, barely two. The twins, four.

  She stopped in front of Candado’s gallery. In all of them, the apple was present. In all of them, the dull eyes… except for the last one, from that morning.

  She smiled, softly.

  “Today was a nice day,” she whispered.