The following months brought changes that did not seem miraculous, but were. Diego canceled the station’s closure and, instead of selling it, opened a pilot program to turn several small gas stations into community businesses with the participation of its workers. The first was that.
Monica went from night cashier to site manager. He had the walls painted. He put in a good coffee machine. Anita chose the color of the tables of the small dining room.
One cold afternoon in December, they placed a new sign: Parada Reyes.
Down, in small print: Coffee, service and road.
Don Beto wept in silence when he saw him.
And months later, at the official opening, Anita appeared with her coat on, already a little short of sleeves, but impeccably careful.
“Mom says the important things don’t throw themselves away,” she told Diego.
He smiled.
Your mom’s right.
The girl put her hand in the lining of the coat and pulled out a little tape sewn recently. There were no longer just initials D. C.
Now he said:
M. A. / A. A.
Monica and Anita Reyes.
Diego looked at her, surprised. Monica came slow.
“The coat no longer belongs to the past,” he said. It belongs to the story we continue to write.
“And me?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Monica held her gaze without running away this time.
“You too… if you’re really going to stay.
Anita, who never had patience for the half-truths, got between the two and grabbed the two of them.
“Well, stay back in one go.
The three of them let go of the laughter at the same time.
Under the new lights of the gas station, with the smell of coffee filling the air and the city cooling again in the background, Diego understood that not all second chances come like a stroke of luck. Some arrive sewn in the lining of an old coat, asking for only one thing:
Don’t ever leave again.
And this time, in front of Monica and Anita, he knew with absolute clarity that he did not intend to do it
