The city archives smelled like dust and paper that had been touched by too many hands. Tomás held the café door open for me earlier that morning, and now we stood inside a quiet building filled with tall metal shelves and long wooden tables. The kind of place where history waited patiently to be rediscovered. I balanced Nona’s recipe book carefully in my arms. “You sure they’ll let us look through immigration records?” I asked.

Tomás glanced around the room. “If they don’t, we’ll ask nicely.”

“That’s your strategy?”

“It usually works.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re surprisingly confident for someone who just became a detective yesterday.”

He grinned, pointing between us, “We’re detectives.” I tried not to notice how easily he included me in that sentence.

A woman at the front desk looked up as we approached. “Can I help you?”

Tomás stepped forward politely. “We’re looking for immigration records from the early nineteen-fifties. Specifically Korean arrivals.”

The woman studied us for a moment, then nodded. “Passenger manifests and refugee records are in the historical section. A lot of them are still physical copies.” She pointed toward the back of the room. “Third row.”

“Thank you,” Tomás said. We walked between the tall shelves until the rest of the room faded into silence. Tomás pulled a thick binder from the shelf. “Ship manifests,” he said.

I set the recipe book down on the table and opened it again while he began flipping through the documents. “If we’re doing this,” I said, “we should look at both things.”

Tomás glanced over. “Both?”

“The records,” I said. “And this.” I tapped the recipe book. “You said you could read Korean, right?”

He nodded slowly. “I can.”

“Then translate it.”

Tomás leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. For a moment, he just looked at the page. Then his expression changed slightly.

“What?” I asked.

“This handwriting,” he said quietly.

“Is it bad?”

“No.”His finger traced one of the Hangul notes.

“It’s careful.”

“Careful?”

“Like someone learning.”

My chest tightened a little. “That would make sense,” I said softly.

Tomás nodded. “My grandfather probably taught her.” The thought made something warm and strange bloom in my chest. Tomás cleared his throat and began reading.

The words flowed out of him in Korean so soft and rhythmic. Completely unfamiliar and somehow beautiful. I had never heard anyone speak Korean before, and the sound of it filled the quiet archive room like music. I found myself staring at him, lost in the beauty of his voice.

“What?” he asked after a moment.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

“You’re looking at me.”

“I’m listening.”

Tomás smiled faintly. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

His smile widened slightly. Then he looked back at the page. “This line says…” he paused, translating slowly. “‘Too sweet. Add more sesame.’”

I laughed. “That’s classic Nona.”

Tomás continued reading. “Here…” he said, pointing to another note. “‘J says chestnut flour tastes like autumn.’”

My stomach flipped. “J,” I murmured.

Tomás nodded. “That’s definitely written by your grandmother.”

“And the Korean?”

He leaned closer to the page.“This part is different.”

“How?”

“It’s written more confidently.”

“Meaning?”

Tomás glanced up. “Someone fluent wrote it.”

My heart skipped. “Your grandfather?”

“Probably.”

I leaned forward until our shoulders nearly touched. “What does it say?”

Tomás read the Hangul again under his breath. Then he translated. “‘For cold days when memories are heavy.’”

Something about that line made the room feel quieter. “Your grandfather wrote that?” I asked softly.

Tomás nodded. “He must have.”

We sat there for a moment in silence. Two people reading a conversation that had happened seventy years ago. Tomás cleared his throat and turned back to the immigration binder. “Let’s see if we can find him.” The pages rustled quietly as he flipped through the records, passing through a lot of names, dates, ships, and places of origin. Minutes seemed to pass before Tomás suddenly stopped. “Wait.”

My pulse jumped. “What?”

He turned the binder toward me. A line in the middle of the page was circled in faded blue ink.

Jang Min-seok Arrival Year: 1953 Port of Origin: Busan

Tomás stared at the page. “That’s him,” he said quietly.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. “That’s my grandfather’s name.”

My chest tightened. “Why is it circled?” I asked.

Tomás leaned closer. Below the entry was a small note written in Spanish. He read it aloud slowly. “Temporary residence arranged through local sponsor.”

“Local sponsor?” I repeated.

Tomás flipped the page. Attached to the record was a thin piece of paper, a handwritten document. My heart began to pound as he read the name at the bottom. "Alicia Conti."

The world seemed to tilt slightly. “That’s…” I whispered.

“Your grandmother,” Tomás finished.

The two of us stared at the paper in stunned silence. “She sponsored him?” I said.

“It looks like it.”

Which meant…“She helped him come here.”

Tomás exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

The air between us felt charged. Seventy years ago, in this same city, our families had crossed paths. I glanced at the recipe book again, at the stars, the Hangul notes, and at the recipes created by two people learning from each other. “They must have been close,” I said quietly.

Tomás met my eyes. “Close enough to change each other’s lives.”

My heart beat a little faster. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then Tomás said softly, “You realize what this means.”

“What?”

He gestured between the book and the records. “My grandfather didn’t just visit your grandmother’s café.”

“He lived because of her.”

The weight of that realization settled over us both. I swallowed. “Tomás?”

“Yeah?”

“If they were that close…” I hesitated. “You think they were together?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the recipe book again, then back to me. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

My stomach fluttered in a way I didn’t entirely understand. The archive room suddenly felt warmer and more uncomfortable. Tomás closed the binder slowly. “I think we just found the beginning of their story.”

I nodded.“And it seems like we’re only getting started. Hey, I forgot that the cultural festival is tomorrow. Would you want to go? It could help us with our research.”

Tomás looked back at me. “What festival?”

“The Mercado de las Culturas. It starts tomorrow and goes for a couple of days. It has food stalls, music, local history booths, and even old family businesses. My grandmother used to participate every year when I was little.” I paused, thinking about all the fun I had when I was with Nona at this festival. “ Some vendors that will be there have been around for generations,” I said slowly, “old Korean and Argentine families that most likely was her during the time of the Korean War refugees.”

Tomás seemed to understand what I was trying to say. “You think someone might remember our grandparents?”

“Maybe, it's worth a shot. If they don’t know them, they will definitely know the café.”

Tomás smiled slightly, “ Then let's go.”