It was an autumn afternoon; golden and orange leaves fell like confetti over the rural landscape, and the sky was tinted a soft pink. Arturo watched the landscape pass through the window.

The car, covered in dust after miles of secondary roads, stopped in front of his childhood home. The sun was shining brightly, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves of the poplars that flanked the entrance.

Arturo got out of the car and stood for a moment, looking at the familiar facade. It was as if he had gone back in time; the houses were still the same, with their stone facades and geraniums in the windows.

The trip to Magallón represented an opportunity to advance his literary project, but at that moment, nothing seemed to matter as much as the words his mother had left him days before: "María wants to be at home. She asked us to spend her last days here."

Entering the garden, he pushed open the wrought iron gate with a creak that reminded him of all the times he had run in after school.

"Arturo! You didn't tell me you were coming eventually," his mother said from a distance, carrying shopping bags.

Arturo rushed to help her, emptying his hands so she could take her keys out of her purse. "It was a last-minute decision, Mom. I'm passing through to a nearby town. I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by the house first."

They walked in together, where the smell of home-cooked stew permeated the air.His father was in the kitchen, figuring out how to make dinner.

"Look who's here," Mrs. Duarte crooned.

"I wasn't planning on stopping, but I was looking forward to seeing you before I continued my journey," Arturo said once more, setting things down on the table to hug his father. "Besides, it's always nice to have a good home-cooked meal."

"Trip?" the cook asked, serving him a plate. "Where are you going?"Arturo hesitated for a moment whether to tell them the real purpose of his visit.

"Tomorrow I'm going to Magallón, a small town nearby, in search of the collaborator for my next book.

"Book?""It's a long story" he said, taking off his jacket and leaving it on the chair in the hall. "And Maria? Is she resting?"

His father nodded, pointing to the hallway. "She's in her room. She might have fallen asleep for a while".

"You're very skinny, Arturo," his mother said, worried. "Have you been eating well lately?"

"Do you know if I still have any of my old notebooks? They might be useful for what I'm writing."

Arturo's mother paused for a moment, thoughtful. "They're in your room, probably where you left them."

Without saying anything, Arturo ran up the stairs, each step creaking just as it had when he was a child.

Everything was the same: the posters of his favorite bands on the wall, the bookshelf full of books with pages yellowed from the time he read in his teens, and his light-wood desk, with pen marks and little drawings he'd made during his afternoons of studying.

He walked over to the bookshelf and saw the black-covered notebooks, stacked on top of each other. Each one was filled with scribbles, ideas, book quotes, and short stories he'd written when he dreamed of being a professional writer.

She opened the window and let the fresh country air flood into the room. She took a deep breath, enjoying the silence, the tranquility that only the village could offer her.

Without thinking too much, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting herself be enveloped by the familiarity. She opened the notebook, the yellowed pages giving off a smell of aged paper. Her eyes slid over the old scribbles, the improvised drawings, the notes made in the haste of someone afraid of forgetting a brilliant idea.

Each word was a window to a moment in her life, a time capsule.

Then one of the notebooks, smaller and with a green cover, caught her attention. She opened it and found a list of ideas she had written when she was about thirteen years old. Some were simple sentences: "The Kingdom of Broken Mirrors," "A Stray Cat," "The Shadow That Talks."

Others were small sketches of stories, with names of characters and places, fragments of dialogue that had never become anything more.

Arturo smiled as he read, recognizing the boy he had been, the one who dreamed of writing books and creating worlds. It had been years since he had written those words, and although he was now closer than ever to fulfilling that dream, he felt like something was escaping him.

Beside him, on the nightstand, was a more recent notebook. This was the one from Papel y Pluma. He opened it and began to read the ideas that readers had sent him and that he had liked the most.

There was something beautiful about those proposals, how strangers shared fragments of their own imaginations, hoping that he could bring them to life.

"A butterfly from the garden of a lost young man he had been caring for, guides him back to his home."

Arturo let out a sigh, running his fingers over those words.

There was something so simple and yet so profound about that idea. It was a metaphor that now seemed unavoidably personal to him. For so long, he himself had felt lost, not knowing how to move forward. But then, a small spark, a flash—like that butterfly—had guided him back to this place, to his childhood home, to the memories that had shaped him. To Maria.

He could imagine her listening to this story. His sister, curled up in his bed like when they were children, with the same curious expression she always had when he told her stories. Arturo smiled to himself, thinking of how she always insisted on adding some detail. "Make the butterfly bright, like it was made of golden light," he could hear her say. "And let the child be afraid at first, but let the butterfly convince him that he is safe."

Suddenly, something changed in him.

He felt a spark of inspiration. It was a feeling similar to the one he had in his adolescence, that impulsive need to write, to put into words everything that stirred inside his mind.

He got out of bed and sat at the desk, opening a blank page in the notebook. Without thinking twice, he took one of the old pens he had left there years ago and began to write by hand, almost frantically. He had no clear plan, no outline, just a torrent of ideas that spilled out onto the paper.

"The wind howled through the trees of the forest, and the night fell like a dark blanket over the landscape. The young man walked alone, guided by a soft light that danced in front of him. It was a butterfly with bright wings, as if woven from moonlight. Every time the young man stopped, the butterfly would spin around him, its wings flickering in the darkness, as if trying to talk to him, to tell him that he was not alone. That his home was closer than he thought."

Arturo stopped for a moment and looked up at the window of his room. The full moon illuminated the garden of withered flowers, the same one that Maria and her mother had cared for during her childhood. He felt a pang in his heart, but he did not stop writing. It was as if time had not passed, as if he were still the teenager who wrote until dawn at that same desk, dreaming of distant worlds and impossible adventures.

"The young man followed the butterfly without hesitation, his small steps echoing on the dry leaves on the ground. As he moved forward, the fear dissipated, replaced by a strange warmth in his chest. He felt that the butterfly was guiding him not only back home, but towards something deeper, something he had lost and was finding again at that moment. When the young man looked up, he saw his home in front of him, bathed in the silver light of the moon. The butterfly landed gently on a flower in the garden, and the young man, with a smile, understood that he had arrived."

Arturo let out a sigh as he finished writing the last paragraph. There was something cathartic about that short story, something he hadn't planned but needed to get out of him. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to enjoy the silence, the momentary peace he felt.

He realized then that being in his childhood room had brought back a part of himself that he had left behind. That spontaneity, that passion for writing without restrictions or worries.

Everything felt different and, at the same time, the same.

He got up from the desk and approached the bed again, lying down on the old blankets and looking at the ceiling of the room. Arturo's ceiling was a blank canvas, a canvas where memories and emotions were woven into a chaotic collage.

The mattress was a little harder than he remembered, the sheets had a lavender scent mixed with time, and the walls were still decorated with the faded drawings he had pasted there years ago.

He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as he used to do as a child. There were nights when he would spend hours staring at those same cracks, imagining them as rivers that ran through fantastic worlds. On those nights, he would invent more stories. More entire worlds that were born and died under his gaze: castles on impossible mountains, dragons that danced in the starry sky, heroes and villains that fought for the fate of distant lands.

This was his refuge, his escape.

"And Maria was always there," he thought, as another pang of pain crossed his chest. In those years, his sister had always been part of his stories, even if he didn't know it. She was the brave princess who led armies, the explorer who navigated endless oceans, the light that illuminated the darkest moments of his imaginations.

Arturo closed his eyes, trying to dispel the weight of nostalgia, but that only brought back more memories. The arguments with his parents.

"Stop living in your fantasy world, Arturo!" his father would tell him, his tired and frustrated voice echoing like a distant echo in his mind.

His mother, softer but equally concerned, would add:

"We know you have talent, but you have to be realistic, darling".

But for him, reality had always been boring. While other children played football or climbed trees, he preferred to stay in his room, inventing.

María was his only defender. Arturo clearly remembered the time she had argued with his parents about him.

"Leave him alone," the young woman had said, crossing her arms in front of her bedroom door. "If he wants to make up stories, let him make them up. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll read about it in a book."

Maria.

She had been his anchor and his storm. She had also been his accomplice on nights when the games seemed to have no end. He remembered the ones they used to invent together.

His childhood bedroom was not just a room; it was a fortress, a pirate ship, a distant planet. The cushions were mountains, the blankets were oceans, and the old desk lamp was a sun that illuminated his adventures.

Maria was always the boldest, the one who took the biggest risks. He was just trying to keep up with her, inventing rules as he went along to make sense of the chaos.

He slowly got out of bed and walked over to the window. He looked out at the garden he had seen so many times from there. The wilted flowers and neglected plants welcomed him, as if his own pain was reflected in them. The flowers that used to be full of bright colors were now dry and gray, their leaves broken by the passage of time.

Maria always took care of the plants. She loved the garden, she tended it as if it were her own little paradise.

With a slight pang in his chest, Arturo walked out into the hallway, through the old house, and to the back door, where the plants were waiting for him.

The night moon chilled the air, but the breeze was fresh. He crouched down next to one of the dried plants, taking the watering can that stood by the wall. Water fell on the leaves, some of them still struggling to stay alive. However, the plants no longer shone with the life they used to have.

He paused for a moment, looking at the landscape he knew well since he was a child, the one that had been part of his happiest memories.

The moon was still shining in the sky, majestic and clear, as always, but as he looked at it more closely, Arturo felt a shudder in his chest. It was no ordinary moon. It wasn't just its silver glow that disturbed him, but something strange was happening on its surface.

The moon seemed to... change. In the blink of an eye, its light became warmer, as if it were absorbed by something, as if its skin were slowly transforming into a kind of soft crust.

Arturo frowned, his eyes fixed on the celestial satellite, trying to understand what he saw.

The moon, that familiar figure, that immutable sphere, was beginning to crumble. It was not a simple play of light or an illusion. Slowly, as if the universe itself were crumbling, the moon was transforming into a piece of yellow cheese, with veins and cracks opening on its surface. The stars, which normally surrounded it, seemed to retreat a little, as if the sky itself was silently observing this supernatural process.

Arturo's eyes widened, he couldn't take his eyes off the window, but he couldn't understand what was happening before his eyes either. It was an impossible phenomenon, and yet, there it was. The moon, known for its cold serenity, now looked like a giant cheese, soft and curved, as if it had been sculpted by a craftsman from the sky, ready to fall apart.

In his mind, something began to click, a feeling that this moment, this vision, wasn't just a whim of nature or magic. It was as if the universe was sending him a signal, a message that he couldn't yet understand, but that touched him deeply.

"The moon made of cheese?" his mother asked, smiling. It was a smile full of that sweetness she used when she talked to Maria about her dreams or when she tried to calm Arturo's anxieties as a child. "Son, that must have been a dream. It's normal for the imagination to play tricks sometimes." "It might just be that," Arturo admitted, shrugging, though deep inside he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been something more. Something symbolic, perhaps a sign.

"Anyway, don't go so soon. Wait until Maria wakes up, it will do her good to see you," his father insisted.

Arturo pressed his lips together and looked toward the door to his sister's room.

"I can't," he finally said, an apologetic tone in his voice. "I have a long trip ahead of me, I have to go to Magallón and I want to get there before noon."

His mother frowned. "But you could at least stay to say goodbye. Maybe this will cheer her up. You know how much she admires you, Arturo."

The young man looked once more toward Maria's room, hesitating. For a moment he felt the urge to stay, to wait until she opened her eyes and share one more story with her.

"I know, Mom," he replied with a sigh. "But... if I stay, I don't know if I'll be able to leave afterwards." I need to do this, I need to find A. Soler and talk to him. It's important to me, to what I'm writing, to what I feel I need to do.

His parents nodded, resigned. "Then go carefully," his father said, patting him on the back. "And come back soon. This will always be your home, Arturo. No matter what happens."

Arturo took his things, including the notebooks, and headed for the front door. He got into his car and headed back out onto the road, leaving his home and his sister behind, knowing that it might be the last time he saw her in life.

As he drove toward Magallón, the landscape slowly changed, from the green fields that surrounded his village, to the hills and vineyards that characterized that part of Zaragoza.

His mind, on autopilot, let his thoughts wander to the story he had been working on.

Enchantia, a strange and fascinating world, spun with a peculiar grace. Unlike Earth, its rotation was synchronous, meaning that one side was perpetually bathed in sunlight, while the other lived under the embrace of eternal night. Between these two extremes, lay the Terminator Zone, a strip of eternal twilight where shadows and light coexisted in balance.

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At the heart of this strip stood Lyra, the city that never slept. Here, the cultures of both sides mingled and influenced each other. There were bustling markets, literary cafes, and alchemy workshops. The sun illuminated the temples of science, while the moon gave life to the theaters of poetry and mystery. Life in Lyra was a vibrant mosaic of traditions, art, and science, where the inhabitants shared a single truth: the balance between light and darkness was essential to their survival.

In the lands that stretched toward Solaris, farmers worked by day, harvesting golden fruits under the endless light of the sun. The crops never ended, and the fields were always in full bloom. The people of Solaris had learned to make the most of the constant light to create a paradise of abundance. The warmth of the sun nourished the crops and filled the hearts of the inhabitants with inexhaustible energy.

Meanwhile, in the lands near Nocturnia, alchemists and philosophers collected plants that only flourished in the eternal darkness of the moon. The roots of these plants stretched into the cold gloom, blooming only at night. In the cities that bordered Nocturnia, poets, musicians, and artists created works of sublime beauty, inspired by the stars that twinkled in a perpetually dark sky. The night had given rise to a cultural explosion of music, literature, and art, while the calm of the moon fostered introspection and creativity without limit.

The balance between both sides of Enchantia had been maintained by the monarchs of the Luminous Castle, a family that ruled with wisdom. The royal family was in charge of watching over the delicate balance that held together the inhabitants of Solaris, Lyra, and Nocturnia.

However, as happens in all great stories, the balance did not last forever.

Arturo imagined a pair of kings, monarchs whose real name had been lost in the echoes of Enchantia's history, but whose legacy still resonated in the darkest corners of the world. These kings, one of Solaris and one of Nocturnia, were ambitious, with a vision that had altered the destiny of their land. With an oversized ego and a strategic mind marked by their own interests, they came to the conclusion that Encantia's true potential was being wasted.

Why share the light of the sun and the shadow of the moon when each could be fully exploited? According to them, the sun should be harnessed to strengthen the inhabitants of Solaris, illuminating their paths and granting them unlimited power and productivity. The moon, in turn, should be used to enrich the inhabitants of Nocturnia, creating a realm of magic, introspection and resources that only darkness could offer in its entirety.

With that ambition as their driving force, the two monarchs decided that division would be the only way to ensure that Solaris and Nocturnia could reach their maximum splendor, without the need to share anything. And so, what had been a world of perfect balance began to break down, dragging with it all of Enchantia towards a dark and fragmented destiny.

Thus began the separation.

The crown separated the population, inciting the inhabitants to move towards the territory they most desired. Lyra became a divided city, as the people of Solaris and Nocturnia began to migrate to their respective realms.

Solaris became a paradise of eternal light, where fields grew tirelessly under the watchful gaze of the sun, but at the same time, the price that was paid for it began to become evident. Little by little, the constant exposure to the sun transformed the inhabitants of Solaris. Arturo imagined them with skin tanned by the heat of the sun, eyes shining like golden light, as if the very essence of the sun had penetrated their bodies. Their bodies reflected the light of day, but that power came with a price. Drought began to ravage the once fertile fields, and the earth cracked beneath their feet, unable to sustain the exuberance of life that once flourished there. The golden fruits, which once fell in abundance, withered before reaching maturity. Rivers evaporated under the scorching sun and the creatures of the soil vanished.

In Nocturnia, the eternal darkness also left its mark. The inhabitants, once people of a vibrant and dynamic culture, became shadows of themselves. Their pale skins and bright eyes like full moons adapted to the darkness, but the price of eternal night became unbearable. The perpetual cold began to freeze the waters of the rivers and seas, leaving the people of Nocturnia without essential resources. The plants that once grew in the gloom stopped blooming, and the inhabitants began to feel the emptiness of a world without warmth. The stars that once inspired hope became distant, almost unreachable.

Meanwhile, the city of Lyra was falling apart. The people had become divided, drawn by the promises of a better life, and the king had achieved what he wanted: a city separated and fractured, where alliances crumbled under the weight of ambition.

The king did not realize that the differences between the sun and the moon were what was similar between the two factions.

Perhaps, he thought, it was a reflection of his own life, of his desire to find a connection in the midst of chaos. Perhaps that cheese moon represented an invitation to soften the barriers, to find humor in the impossible.

He shook his head and turned his attention to the road. The sign for "Magallón" loomed in the distance. He was almost there, and with each kilometer, he felt the anticipation grow.

When he finally arrived, he turned off the car engine and let out a long sigh as he looked around. He had driven for two hours and was finally in Magallón, a small Aragonese town that seemed trapped in time.

The parking lot where he had left the car was next to the main square, which was bustling with activity at that moment. It was Tuesday, market day, and the cobblestone streets were lined with stalls with brightly coloured awnings, where vendors sold everything: fresh fruit and vegetables, artisanal cheeses, clothes, jewellery, and objects that looked like they had come straight from a dusty attic.

The air was filled with a mixture of smells: freshly baked bread, dried herbs and the sweet aroma of ripe fruit.

Arturo got out of the car and closed the door carefully, as if he were afraid of disturbing the harmony of the place. He stood for a moment, observing the scene before him. The voices of the vendors mingled with the murmur of the buyers.

"Freshly picked tomatoes, one euro a kilo!" a man shouted from a nearby stall, his deep voice echoing above the bustle.

The streets surrounding the market were narrow and meandered like a labyrinth between stone houses. The facades, some decorated with wrought iron balconies filled with pots of geraniums, had an ancient and charming air. The square itself was paved with large stone slabs and in its centre was a fountain that seemed as old as the town. The water flowed gently, creating a haven of calm amidst the hustle and bustle.

The young stranger walked slowly between the stalls, letting himself be carried away by the atmosphere. He passed a shopkeeper selling goat cheeses, their wheels perfectly aligned on a wooden board. Further on, an older woman with a headscarf was selling jars of honey and bottles of olive oil, while patiently explaining to a young couple the properties of each product.

There was something magical, something that made him feel as if he had entered another world.

Each stall seemed to have its own story, each product a piece of village life. The smells, colours and voices created an atmosphere that completely enveloped him.

Arturo stopped in front of a stall of old books. A thin man with round glasses and a wide-brimmed hat sat behind a table covered with dusty volumes.

"Looking for something in particular, young man?" the bookseller asked, with a friendly smile.

Arturo shook his head, although his eyes scanned the titles with curiosity. Most were novels by classic authors, but there were also short story books and some volumes of local history.

"I'm just browsing."

After a few minutes, and with a new acquisition in his personal library, Arturo continued walking. The streets leading away from the market were quiet, and in some parts, vines climbed the walls of the houses, adding a touch of green to the landscape dominated by stone and brick.

He could hear the distant ringing of the church bells, marking the hour while at the same time guarding the village.

He had decided to stay in a private house, following a suggestion he had found on a travel forum. It was the home of a man named Jacinto, a local resident who, according to comments, used to rent out one of his rooms to very infrequent travelers.

As he approached the address listed, he realized that the house was no different from the others: a simple structure, with a worn wooden door and a small terrace with plants that seemed to need some more care.

He rang the bell and waited a few seconds. Finally, the door creaked open, revealing a man in his sixties, with a graying beard and a tired but friendly look. He was wearing an old T-shirt and worn pants, like someone who had stopped caring about appearances a long time ago.

"Good afternoon, are you Jacinto?" Arturo asked, trying not to sound too formal.

"That's right," the man replied, nodding with a polite smile. "You must be the writer. The one looking for stories, they say."

Arturo was a little surprised to hear that. He hadn't mentioned being a writer in any message, he had only asked for accommodation for a couple of nights. But in a small town like Magallón, news travels fast.

"I suppose so," Arturo admitted with an embarrassed smile. "I'm here to meet someone. And of course, I'm looking for stories too."

Jacinto waved him in. "Come in, come in. The room is ready. It's not much, but I hope it will help. People don't usually stay here anymore. Tourists prefer the hotels in Zaragoza, and the few who come only stay for a night or two."

Arturo followed the man down a narrow hallway, looking at the walls decorated with black and white photographs, images of Magallón in times gone by. When he reached the room, he noticed that it was small but cozy. A single bed, a nightstand with an antique lamp, and a window that looked out onto the backyard.

"I hope you're comfortable. Anything you need, just knock," Jacinto said, leaning on the door frame. "The kitchen is at the back, if you feel like making something. I don't have much to offer, though."

"I'm sure it will be fine," the young man replied kindly. "I really appreciate it."

Jacinto nodded, but before leaving, he paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else. He looked at Arturo with some curiosity and finally dared:

"You say you're looking for someone. A friend, family?"

Arturo shook his head. "It's someone I don't know personally, only by his last name: Soler."

Jacinto's face lit up for a moment, as if he recognized the name.

"Well, there aren't many Solers here in Magallón, at least that I know of. Maybe someone can help you. People here know each other pretty well".

Arturo nodded. "That's what they tell me and I hope so. I came here specifically to talk to this person".

"Well, if I can help you in any way, tell me. I don't usually receive visitors lately. Since my wife left and the children left, there isn't much activity here anymore. So any company is welcome.

Arturo felt a lump in his throat. He could see that the man, like the town itself, was burdened with the melancholy of times gone by, of better days that would never return.

"Thank you, Jacinto. I think this is the perfect place for what I need to do."

The man patted him on the shoulder, as a gesture of encouragement, and left the room, leaving him alone. Arturo walked over to the window and looked out at the patio, at the dried plants that seemed to be waiting for the return of someone to care for them.

He took a deep breath, took his laptop out of his backpack and placed it on the small table next to the bed. He opened the lid and, after a brief pause while the device started up, he stared at the blank screen of the new document. His fingers hesitated for a second before touching the keyboard.

Remembering what he had imagined during the journey and with the blinking cursor that seemed to invite him to write, he began the story of a young man who defied the beliefs of his people.

With each word he typed, he could visualize the fantastic world, a place full of dazzling landscapes and magical creatures. He saw the golden and silver towers, the vast fields of flowers that changed color with the light of day, and the mysterious forests full of ancient secrets.

However, there was something he did not see.

Arturo could perfectly describe the adventures and challenges his protagonist would face, but every time he tried to visualize her in these scenarios, he found a blurred, masked figure, a presence he knew was there but could not clearly define.

He stopped writing for a moment, looking up from his laptop.

At least he was happier with the character: a daughter of the king who defied the rules, who sought the truth beyond what she had been taught, who dared to believe in a different world.

He looked back at the screen and tried to imagine it once more. He could see the river in all its splendor, the stars reflecting in its crystal-clear waters, the soft sound of the flowing water... but its protagonist remained a mystery.

"Why can't I see you?" he murmured, frustrated. "What am I missing to be able to give you life?"

"Have you tried resting a little?" Jacinto asked him, as he entered the room with two coffees.

Arturo frowned. "Rest?" he repeated, as if the word sounded strange to him.

"Yes, rest," he insisted, with a little laugh. "Sometimes, when you become so obsessed with something, all you do is get more entangled. Maybe you need to get away from the screen, take a walk, have a coffee..." he said as he left the infusion in front of Arturo, "or sleep, if you've been sitting there all day."

"I can't rest now, Jacinto." I finally feel like I have a thread to pull on, and I don't want to let it go. I have the feeling that I just have to try to figure out how to bring my protagonist to life. That if I keep going a little longer I'll succeed.

"And if not, you'll exhaust yourself and you'll be in the same boat" then they both fell silent for a moment, each reflecting on the other's words. "Arturo, you mentioned earlier that you were looking for someone".

"Yes, Soler".

"Soler, you say... There's a Soler family nearby, on the outskirts of town. I'm not sure if they're the same ones, but the last name isn't very common. I know someone who has dealings with them. An old friend of mine, Mauricio, who lives on the next street. He worked for them for a while, taking care of the bakery".

Arturo leaned forward, intrigued. "Really? Do you think Mauricio might know anything about the Solers?"

Jacinto shrugged.

"You have nothing to lose by asking him. If it's not the Solers you're looking for, at least you'll have gotten out of the house a bit and put your feet on the ground. All that time writing will leave you with your head in the clouds."

Arturo smiled, amused by the mental image.

"Yes, Mauricio is a nice man, but he has his own rhythms. He likes to tell stories, so be prepared to hear the odd anecdote before you get to the point."

Arturo got up from the table, feeling optimistic, and left the house, taking the path Jacinto had indicated. The morning air was fresh and invigorating.

He would have to start thinking about what he was going to tell Mauricio. If that man really knows the Soler family, perhaps he would finally have a solid lead on A. Soler. Before leaving, Arturo had suggested that Jacinto accompany him, but his host had rejected the proposal with a laugh.

"Me? Not a chance. Mauricio is a good person, but he has a gift for talking non-stop. If I go with you, we will end the day talking about how to take care of a bakery and not about what you need to know. Go on your own.

As he walked through the streets, he finally saw Mauricio's house. It was a modest building, with stone walls covered by vines that climbed up to the roof. In front of the entrance, an older man with gray hair and lively eyes was crouching, surrounded by a small army of stray cats. With calm movements, Mauricio poured water into some bowls while muttering something that Arturo could not understand.

When Arturo approached, Mauricio looked up and frowned slightly at the sight of a stranger. He stood up with some difficulty, wiping his hands on the apron he was wearing.

"What do we have here?" he asked, in a hoarse but friendly tone of voice, as he looked Arturo up and down. "You don't see many strangers around here..."

Arturo stepped forward, trying to be friendly.

"Good morning, Mr. Mauricio. My name is Arturo, I'm a friend of Jacinto's. I'm looking for information about the Soler family, and I was told that you might know them".

Mauricio tilted his head, intrigued, and glanced at the cats, as if asking for their opinion.

"The Soler family, huh? Wow, I didn't expect that. And what are you looking for with them, if I may ask?" he asked, as he leaned over to fill another bowl.

"I'm working on a project that came about through a collaboration with someone who signs as Soler," Arturo said, trying to sum up. "I don't know who he is or where he's from, but I'm sure he has some connection to this family."

Mauricio looked at him in silence for a moment, scratching his chin. Then he set the bowl aside and crossed his arms.

"Those are big words, young man. But look, you're in luck. I know the Solers. I worked for them years ago, taking care of their bakery. Although I can't guarantee that they'll give you the answers you seek, I can tell you a little of what I know. How about that?"

Arturo nodded gratefully, while Mauricio gestured for him to follow him to a small wooden bench by the entrance to his house.

"Ah, but be prepared, boy. This story can't be told in two minutes," the man warned with a crooked smile. "Although who knows, maybe you'll find what you need in my words."

Mauricio began to relate calmly, his voice hoarse but filled with an enthusiasm that made his love of memories evident. Arturo listened attentively, trying hard to separate the relevant details from the numerous anecdotes the man interspersed in his story.

In his younger days, Mauricio had worked for years in a bakery in the village, a modest business but well known for its crusty loaves and the yeasty aroma that permeated the streets in the morning. The bakery was owned by David Soler, a kindly man with a strong voice who always had a story to tell. According to Mauricio, he and David would often stay and chat after long work days, when the machines were off and the heat of the oven no longer burned.

"David was an encyclopedia of family stories," Mauricio said, with a nostalgic smile. "He always talked about his mother, Ana Soler, a woman of character who, according to him, had laid the foundations for everything his family was. "Everything we are, we owe to her," he said. He referred to her with such respect that one would think the woman was some kind of noble or something.

Ana Soler, Mauricio continued, was known in the village for her wit and her ability to get by in difficult times. She had raised her children practically alone after marrying young, and her name still resonated among the oldest people in the community.

"But the interesting thing, if I may say so," Mauricio added, leaning toward Arturo with a conspiratorial look, "is that David also mentioned that Ana wrote. It was never public, of course, but he used to find old notebooks full of stories and reflections. He said that his mother had an unparalleled imagination and that he sometimes thought that her love of words had been inherited in the family.

Arturo felt something inside him click.

A. Soler... Ana Soler. It was so simple that he almost felt silly.

Ana Soler, David's mother: a woman with dreams of the written word, with the desire to see her name printed on the pages of a book, but who, for reasons beyond her control, had to hide behind a pseudonym. Arturo imagined that in her youth, Ana, like so many other writers, had felt the spark of creativity burning within her. She probably had dreams of seeing her stories published, of sharing the worlds she had created with the world. But something, or someone, had stopped that impulse.

Arturo couldn't help but frown at her husband's decision that she should dedicate herself to housework, to caring for her family.

Perhaps he didn't understand Ana's need to write, to put her thoughts into words. Perhaps he thought his wife's dreams were just that, dreams. Arturo couldn't help but compare it to the story of so many female writers and artists who, over the centuries, saw their potential repressed by social and family expectations. Ana's own husband, who surely seemed so wise and respectful, was the one who unintentionally extinguished the flame in her eyes.

Arturo thought of the notebooks Mauricio had spoken of. Probably handwritten, full of stories from untold worlds, ideas never shared with most, but which, like a whisper, had reached him through an enigmatic name.

It was not the first time that a writer used a pseudonym to hide his true face from the world. Some did it out of modesty, others out of a desire to escape the burden of their own identity, others to give space to their work...

"Of course!" exclaimed Arturo, almost unintentionally, as he assimilated the connection.

Mauricio looked at him curiously, although, seeing the expression on his face, he nodded with an understanding smile.

"Everything okay, boy? Too much information?"

Arturo had not noticed, but he had been biting his lip, absorbed in his thought. Now, seeing the cat lover's worried face, he took a deep breath and looked back at him with a grateful smile.

"I'm sorry, it's just that... I just realized something. A. Soler... Ana Soler. It has to be her! The woman who sent her idea to the magazine... she's the author!"

Mauricio frowned, clearly not understanding right away, but he settled back on his bench and waited for Arturo to finish speaking.

"I'd always thought A. Soler was a man. A pseudonym, of course. But what you're telling me, it all makes sense."

Mauricio's face showed a flash of recognition, as if something was becoming clear in his mind as well. After a moment of reflection, the man nodded slowly.

"That would be something very typical of her, yes," he said thoughtfully. "She never liked being the center of attention. From what people around here say, she preferred to stay in the shadows, watching. If what you say is true, then the idea is nothing more than a continuation of what began years ago."

Arturo stood up suddenly, the search having taken an unexpected turn. The pseudonym was not only an enigma, but a key, a bridge between the work and the author, a way to hide his identity, but also to challenge those curious enough to discover the truth.

"And David still lives here?" Arturo asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Mauricio shook his head. "He moved away years ago. But his son, Jaime, stayed. Although if there is anyone who can tell you more about Ana Soler, it is herself."