Chapter Two
973 Words
Yesenia walked the streets of the Latin Quarter like a ghost wearing her own skin. Her hands, still tingling from the night before, felt foreign—too clumsy, too numb to belong to her. The tingling wasn’t from the cold, but from countless failed attempts at broken meringues, split ganache, collapsed madeleines. She had barely slept. Each misstep replayed in her mind like a cruel reel, echoing in her wrists. The bakery would open in just days. And she couldn’t even get a single recipe right.
She passed shuttered shops and empty courtyards, the soft slap of her sandals against the cobblestones sharp in the hush of the midnight hour. Her toes, exposed to the chill, curled with each step. Her mind wandered, dragging her through memories she wasn’t ready to relive. Her father’s voice, her brother’s smirk, the feel of her mother’s apron strings brushing her neck. And the silence—so loud inside her she couldn’t hear anything else.
A breeze stirred her curls, lifting them from her neck like fingers teasing her nape. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter, regretting the aimless stroll. But she couldn’t go back to the kitchen. Not yet. The walls in there were worse.
As she turned a corner near an old phone booth, something caught her eye. A flyer, nearly coming loose from a rusted bulletin board, flapped in the wind like a whisper.
L’Ombre — Le Sculpteur de Douleur
A rising star in the Parisian underground. One night only. Obsidian. Flesh. Shadow made form.
The words were stark. Pretentious. But the image… it held her. She wasn’t even sure why—something about it tugged at her, like an old bruise pressed too hard. She told herself it was just curiosity, but deep down, it felt more like recognition.
The sculpture featured was carved from glossy black stone, twisted into something vaguely human—something broken and writhing. There were no eyes. Just open mouths, arched spines, and arms reaching nowhere. It looked like grief itself, frozen and polished.
Yesenia stared at it for a long moment, unable to look away. It reminded her of the pain she hadn’t let herself name. The kind that lived under the skin, behind the eyes. Raw, unshaped.
Behind her, the soft hiss of a match struck flint. The scent came a moment later—rich, earthy, unmistakable. Tobacco. Not just any kind. A Cuban cigar. Sweet and bitter, like molasses and ash.
She turned slightly.
A few feet away, an older man in a camel coat leaned against the wall, a thick cigar perched between his fingers. His eyes, dark and thoughtful, flicked between her and the flyer. He exhaled smoke slowly, like it was part of the ritual.
“That’s art?” he asked, voice low and accented, rough like the sea. “Looks more like someone carved out their demons and called it a masterpiece.”
Yesenia didn’t answer right away. Her lips parted, but nothing came. Then, softly, “Maybe that’s all art really is.”
He grunted—a warm, dry sound. “Pain’s got enough faces in the world already. Doesn’t need another one carved in stone.”
She glanced at him, something flickering in her chest. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Sometimes I think I need to see it. Just to know I’m not the only one.”
The man looked at her properly now. His gaze was steady, lined with time and something quiet and unspoken. “You’ve lost people,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, just once.
“Family?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Too many.”
He took a slow drag, then let the smoke roll between his teeth. “You keep going anyway. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Like cafecito—strong, no sugar, and always a little bitter.”
The words landed with surprising weight. Her chest tightened.
“You from the island?” she asked softly.
“Long time ago. Left Havana with a suitcase and a Santería charm in my sock.” He smiled faintly. “Still carry the charm. Not sure about the sock.”
A small laugh escaped her lips. It surprised her. She hadn’t meant to smile.
“Listen,” he said, nodding toward the poster. “If you go to that show… just make sure you're going to see the art. Not to find yourself inside it.”
She met his gaze. “What if it’s both?”
He tipped the ash from his cigar. “Then leave before it swallows you.”
He straightened, tapped out the cigar against the wall, and tucked it into a small tin.
“Goodnight, niña,” he said, voice softer now. “Keep walking. Keep baking. Don’t let the ghosts win.”
She stood there, still for a moment, until he disappeared down the street.
The flyer behind her flapped again in the breeze.
In the distance, a burst of music cracked the quiet. Salsa. Drums and horns and joy spilling from a second-floor window. She could hear the slap of palms on thighs, laughter rising like incense from the party.
It felt like another world.
She paused beneath a flickering streetlamp, her gaze drifting skyward. The moon hung pale and thin above the rooftops, distant and indifferent.
Her hands curled into fists in her coat pockets. She hated how restless she felt. How useless.
The poster flapped again behind her.
She kept walking, but not faster. Not slower. Just enough to feel like maybe she was still moving forward.
Maybe tomorrow her hands would remember how to move with certainty. Maybe tomorrow the oven’s heat would feel like purpose again.
But tonight, all she had was the quiet between recipes—and the haunting shape of obsidian reaching for nothing at all.
- Writer
