I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photograph again. Nona was standing outside the café decades ago, smiling like she knew something no one else did. Nona looked happier. At least I think I know how she had some Hangul in her recipe book now, it must have been from that man who was beside her in the photograph, the man with the same face as Tomás.

Chiquita.

That word rang in my ears. I heard it the way she used to say it, soft and affectionate. Something she would only say when no one was around, like it belonged only to us. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city washed, cleaned, and quiet. Morning light filtered through the café windows in a pale gold streak.

I stood behind the counter, staring into the espresso machine while it hissed and rattled awake. It was too early, and nothing made sense anymore. I shook my head; there must be a logical explanation for these dreams and memories that Tomás and I seem to have. People didn’t remember past lives, reincarnation doesn’t exist, especially since Nona and I were together; it’s not like she passed and then I was born. But then again, random people don’t just walk into cafés with a photograph of your grandmother and start describing your childhood.

And yet, Tomás had known things no one should know. I set the espresso cup down harder than necessary. “Okay,” I muttered to myself, “you’re not thinking about this today, it is time to work.” The bell above the door chimed, “Welcome.” I said automatically, not looking up, moving my cup out of view. Footsteps approached the counter as I grabbed a menu, and I looked up to guide the customer to a table and froze. Tomás stood right in front of me. This time, he wasn’t soaked with the rain. His dark hair was dry and slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He wore a simple dark jacket and carried a small paper bag.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, then he lifted the bag slightly. “I brought breakfast.”

I stared at him in shock. “You came back.”

He gave a small shrug. “ You didn’t tell me not to.”

I opened my mouth to argue with that logic, then closed it. Technically, he was right, and I couldn’t argue with that.

“You slept?” He asked carefully.

“No,” I said flatly.

“Same.”

Great. Now we were both sleep-deprived and apparently investigating supernatural family mysteries before coffee. I crossed my arms. “Why are you really here, Tomás?”

Tomás hesitated, “ I thought maybe…we should talk some more. When it’s not midnight and raining.” That was annoyingly reasonable. He set the paper bag on the counter and pushed it towards me.

“Medialunas,” he said. “From the bakery down the street.” The smell of buttery pastries drifted out immediately.

“You brought pastries from another bakery to my café that has pastries,” I said just as my stomach betrayed me with a quiet growl.

Tomás smiled slightly, “It seems like you didn’t have these on the menu. And besides, you look like someone who forgot to eat dinner.”

I glared at him. “You look like someone who shows up uninvited… twice!”

“Fair.” A small silence fell between us again.

Finally, I sighed and pulled one of the pastries out of the bag. “Five minutes,” I said. “ Then you leave.”

“Deal.”

I bit into the medialuna. It was warm and flaky and exactly what I needed after a sleepless night. I glanced over my medialuna and saw Tomás looking around the café again, just like he had the night before.

“You kept it the same,” he said quietly.

“What?” I practically spit out the medialuna.

“The café.”

I frowned. “You’ve never been here before.”

“I know.” His eyes moved slowly across the room. “But it feels familiar.” There's that word again… Familiar.

I wiped my hands on a napkin. “You never answered my question last night.”

“Which one?” He asked.

“What do you want?” I responded, taking another bite of the medialuna.

Tomás leaned against the counter. “I told you. Nothing.”

“That’s not believable.”

He studied my face for a moment. Then he said softly, “What’s your name?”

I blinked, taken aback by his question. “You walked into my café, told me my grandmother might have known your grandfather in another life, and you’re only asking that now?”

He smiled faintly. “I figured you’d kick me out before I got the chance.”

I did consider that. “Lucía,” I said finally. “Lucía Moretti.”

He repeated it slowly. “Lucía.” The way he said it made my chest feel strangely tight.

“You already know my name,” he added.

“Tomás Min-seok,” I said. “Yes. The mysterious dream man.”

He laughed quietly. “That’s a terrible nickname.”

“It’s accurate.” I leaned against the counter. “So, Tomás Min-seok. Explain something to me.”

“I’ll try.”

“How does someone dream about a place they’ve never seen?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been asking myself that all week.”

“And?”

“And I don’t have an answer.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He pulled something from his jacket pocket, another photograph. This one was newer; it showed a family with three people standing together: an older man, a middle-aged couple, and a younger version of Tomás. “My grandfather,” he said, pointing to the older man.

I looked closer. Even older, the resemblance was still there. Same posture and steady gaze.

“He died when I was ten,” Tomás said quietly.

“And that’s when the dreams started?” I asked.

He nodded. “Not right away, but a few years later.”

“What kind of dreams?”

Tomás hesitated. “The same ones that would happen over and over.” He looked around the café again. “A kitchen.”

My chest tightened.

“Flour everywhere,” he continued. “Someone laughing and music playing.”

My fingers curled slightly against the counter.

“And the little girl?” His gaze returned to me. “You.”

I exhaled slowly. “This is insane.”

“I know.”

“You understand how insane this sounds.”

“I do.”

I pushed away from the counter. “And you still came here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Tomás held my gaze. “Because the dreams changed last week.”

I felt something shift in my chest. “How?”

“For the first time,” he said, “the girl wasn’t a kid anymore.”

The room suddenly felt very quiet. “What do you mean?”

Tomás looked almost embarrassed.“She was older.”

“How much older?”

“About your age.” He answered.

My heart skipped. “And?”

“And she was standing right where you were last night.”

I was behind the counter last night when he came into the café, soaking wet from the rain. My stomach flipped. “What was she doing?” I asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Cooking.” Of course she was. Tomás’s voice softened. “And she looked… sad.”

That hit harder than I expected. Nona used to say people could taste emotion in food. Maybe they could taste my sadness.

“I think something happened back then,” Tomás said carefully. “Something between our grandparents.”

I crossed my arms again. “You think they were in love.”

“I don’t know.”

“You brought me a photo of them standing like a couple.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” Tomás shook his head.

“No,” I said slowly. “But your face kind of does.”

He laughed softly. “I can’t argue with that.”

I looked down at the counter. “Even if they were,” I said, “that was seventy years ago.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t mean anything now.”

Tomás didn’t answer immediately. Then he said quietly, “What if it does?”

I met his eyes again. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“You said that last night.”

“Because it’s true.”

He nodded slowly. “My grandfather used to say something similar.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He said destiny was just a story people told themselves after the fact.”

“That’s surprisingly practical.”

Tomás smiled faintly. “But he also kept that photograph for fifty years.”

I didn’t have an answer for that. The café door chimed again as a morning customer walked in. “Lucía! You’re open early today,” Mrs. Alvarez called cheerfully from the doorway. I blinked, suddenly remembering I had a business to run.

“Morning!” I said automatically.

She stopped when she saw Tomás. “Oh! I didn’t know you had company.”

I grabbed the coffee pot. “Just someone passing through.”

Tomás raised an eyebrow at that description but didn’t argue.

Mrs. Alvarez leaned toward me and whispered loudly, “He’s handsome.” I nearly dropped the coffee mug.

“I can hear you,” Tomás laughed.

She smiled brightly at him. “Good. That saves me time.”

I pressed a hand over my face. This was going to be a long morning. When I looked back at Tomás, he was smiling. Somehow, despite everything that had happened in the last twelve hours, the café felt a little warmer.