The rain started just after I flipped the sign to Cerrado. It came down suddenly, the way autumn storms liked to arrive in this part of the city without warning. One moment, the street outside my café was quiet and dry, the next the windows blurred with water and the gutters began their steady, hollow rush.

Inside, the warm scent of sesame oil and dulce de leche lingered in the air. I wiped the counter slowly, listening to the rain drumming against the windows. The last empanada trays were cooling behind me, their flaky crust releasing little sighs of steam, bringing back memories of my grandmother and me in the kitchen waiting for the empanadas to cool before we ate them. The makgeolli syrup I’d been experimenting with still simmered faintly on the back burner, sweet and earthy, rice wine, honey, and jujube.

My grandmother Nona would always say, ‘Rain made the flavors taste better.’ I didn’t know if that was true, but the café always felt more alive when it rained. “Alright,” I murmured to the empty room, stacking the last cups. “That’s enough for today, time to stop thinking about the past.” The chairs were already flipped onto the tables, the lights were dimmed low, and Nona’s old recipe notebook sat open beside the register, its pages warped and stained from decades of use. Spanish curved across the pages, and some hangul squeezed into the margins. I never understood why she never spoke Korean; she was Argentine and Italian. That was one mystery I never figured out. Her handwriting always made me feel like she was still standing somewhere behind me, and every time I expected her to call out my name, saying she was ready for my help in the kitchen, but that never came.

I reached to close the book when I heard the bell above the door chime. I froze, for a second, I thought the wind had blown it open, but then the door creaked, and a man stepped in, soaked to the bone, holding something in his hand as if it mattered more than staying dry. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his dark hair and ran down the shoulders of his jacket. His shoes left damp prints across the tile floor as he pushed the door closed behind him. He stood there a moment, catching his breath like he’d been running through the storm.

I straightened instinctively, reaching for the towel on the counter. “We’re closed,” I said without emotion, the same tone I used every night when someone tried to sneak in after hours. The man looked up.

“I know,” he said. His voice was soft, slightly rough from the cold. “I just need a minute.”

That wasn’t how this usually went; most people apologize and leave. This guy didn’t; instead, He looked around like he recognized the place. His gaze lingered on the chalkboard menu, on the shelves of tea jars, on the little ceramic tiger Nona had insisted belonged by the window. His brow furrowed faintly, as if he was trying to remember something just out of reach.

“You’ve been here before?” I asked, breaking the silence.

He paused, “No, never.” Yet he kept looking around the room with that strange familiarity, like someone walking through their own house. He stepped closer, water dripping onto the floor with each step.“I’m sorry,” he said again, more quietly this time. “I just… I needed to see if this place was real.”

I blinked. “That’s a new one.”

He gave a small, awkward smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he lifted the thing he’d been holding, an old faded photograph. “Do you know her?” he asked as I took the photo.

The breath left my lungs, and the room seemed to tilt sideways; the café around me disappeared, taking the rain with it.

There, standing in front of my Korean-Argentinian fusion café, was my grandmother. The storefront looked exactly like it is today, except the sign above the door was older, painted instead of carved, and the windows had lace curtains instead of glass panels. Nona looked barely older than twenty in this photo, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, wearing a simple dress and an apron dusted in what looked like flour. Her eyes were bright and mischievous, like she was hiding a secret.

Next to her was a tall, broad-shouldered man. His hands rested lightly on her back. I looked up slowly, the man standing across the counter watched me carefully, looked just like the one standing next to my grandmother. He had the same jaw, eyes, and the same quiet, steady posture.

“That’s impossible,” I muttered.

He exhaled softly, almost in relief, as he gave me a small smile. “Yeah,” He said. “I thought so too.”

I looked back down at the photo, my pulse beginning to pound in my ears.

“My grandfather left Korea during the war,” he continued, “he ended up in Argentina, he never talked about what happened before or why he came back to Korea when the war ended.” The rain rolled down the café windows like silver threads. “I found that photo last week in a box of my dad’s things.” his voice faltered slightly, “after he died.” I swallowed. “I…I look like him, right?” he finished.

I looked from the photo to his face again. It was like I was standing in front of the man in this picture, with the same jaw, same eyes, and the same posture. “Is this why you came here? Because you look like him?” I asked. It wasn’t identical, but the bones of his face, the quiet intensity in his eyes, felt like I was looking at history repeating itself. Before I gave him a chance to respond, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Tomás Min-seok. My mom is Argentinian, and my dad is Korean.” His eyes drifted around the café again, lingering on the pastry case. “ I... think this place used to mean something. I’ve never been here before, but I knew what it smelled like.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

He inhaled gently, like he was testing a memory. “Kimchi oil.” He said. My grip tightened on the photograph. “Dulce de leche,” My stomach flipped. “ And sesame.”

Silence filled the inside of the café as the rain roared louder outside. Something cold slid down my spine, and I didn’t say anything, just stared.

“It’s like…” he hesitated, “it’s like a memory.”

I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t because I started to have this strange feeling beginning to stir in my chest. Something uncomfortable and at the same time familiar. Tomás stepped closer to the counter. His gaze shifted to the cooling tray behind me. Then, without asking, he reached behind the counter, grabbed one of the makgeolli-alfajores I’d been experimenting with this afternoon. “These!” He said quietly. “You made these with chestnut flour. Right?”

I froze.

“You only make them in autumn,” He continued slowly, examining the cookie as if it were a fragile artifact. “And only for birthdays.”

My stomach dropped. “How do you know that?”

He looked up with uncertainty. “My dreams,” he said, voice low. “I’ve had the same dream as long as I can remember.” My mouth went dry. “A woman,” he continued. “Your grandmother… maybe? Standing in a kitchen, humming while kneading dough. I don’t know. But I remember the smell.” his voice softened. “And a little girl is sitting at the table.” My hands began to tremble. “I think it was you.”

I took a step back, bumping into the counter. “You’re joking! This isn’t funny, Tomás.”

“I’m not joking, I wish I was.”

“You’re telling me you know, I mean, remember my grandmother?”

“I wish I could tell you something different, but I’m telling you what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt.”

The rain outside thundered against the roof. Tomás set the cookie down slowly.“In the dream,” he continued carefully, “she calls you something.”

My heart began to race.

“A name.” He hesitated. “Chiquita.”

My knees nearly gave out. No one knew that name. Not even my mother. Nona used to whisper it to me in dreams, I thought I imagined it…little one.

My voice came out barely audible.“You’re messing with me. How do you know that?”

“I don’t.” Tomás shook his head slowly. “I wish I were.” He looked almost as shaken as I felt. “I thought I was crazy.” The rain softened slightly outside, and the café suddenly smelled stronger of rice wine, sugar, and toasted sesame.

“You’re messing with me,” I whispered again, finding it hard to grab what I just heard.

“I’m really not.”

I slowly sank to the floor before my legs failed completely. Tomás hesitated and pointed to the tables, “Maybe we should sit at the table.”

I counted to 3, taking a deep breath each time before standing and following him to the tables. He sat across from me slowly, like he was afraid sudden movements might break something fragile between us. We just stared at each other across the small wooden table, which felt like hours, the photograph lying between us.

Tomás broke the silence between us first, “My grandfather never talked about Argentina. But these dreams… they started when I was a kid.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I remember a café, this café, after seeing it in person, I’m sure it was this café.”

My pulse thudded louder, still wrapping my head around everything.

He continued, “flour everywhere and a woman singing while cooking.”

My throat tightened as I tried to hold back the tears, remembering Nona singing while she cooked and how I missed hearing her and tasting her food.

Tomás pressed on, “and a little girl with seasme on her cheeks.”

I pressed a hand to my forehead, “ You’re saying you remember my childhood?”

“I’m saying,” he paused, it seemed like he was trying to figure out what to say next, so it didn’t freak me out more than what he already said. “That I remember pieces of something.” He met my gaze. “ Remembering pieces of something... before.”

“Before what?” I asked, removing my hand from my forehead.

“Before now, before this life,” Tomás responded. What he said echoed softly in the room, leaving behind a silence that felt electric.

“What do you want from me?” I finally asked.

Tomás shook his head immediately.“Nothing,” he said, his expression softening. “I just needed to see if you were real.” A strange ache spread through my chest. “If this place were real,” he added.

I looked down at the photograph again. Nona’s smile looked different now, like she knew something the rest of us didn’t.

“I don’t believe in fate,” I told him.

Tomás gave a small, tired laugh.“I didn’t either.” He leaned forward slightly. “But I remember you.”

The words landed somewhere deep inside me. His eyes were too honest, and I hated how familiar he felt, and even more how comfortable that familiarity was. Silence bloomed between us, heavy and electric. I stared at the photo again. My grandmother had always seemed... sad. Like, part of her stayed somewhere far away.

I stood without thinking and walked into the kitchen. My hands moved automatically as I reached for the old kettle. I grabbed the old, battered recipe book. The one with her handwriting in Spanish and Hangul, covered in all the stains and smudges it got over time. I opened it without thinking to page forty-two.

I didn’t speak as I got all the ingredients ready. Mate leaves, jujubes, and honey. It was a drink that I hadn’t had or made in years because it reminded me so much of my grandparents that every time I tried to make it, I just ended up in tears. I brewed it slowly, just like Nona used to do.

When I carried the steaming cups back into the café, Tomás watched silently as I set a mug in front of him. The steam curled between us like something sacred.

He lifted the cup cautiously and took a sip. His eyes widened, “Mate,” he said slowly, “but with jujube, and honey.”

My chest tightened, remembering all the times she would make it. “She made it for me when I had nightmares.”

Tomás closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they looked brighter. “She made it for me, too.”

My throat ached. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, and inside, I sat across from a man I had never met, yet somehow remembered. The photograph lay between us on the table, leaving me with an uneasy feeling that the past wasn’t finished with us yet.