Gael looked up from his plate and met the gaze of a young waitress he had never seen before. She was slim, about 23 years old, with brown hair pulled back in a neat bun, and delicate features that vaguely reminded him of someone he couldn't quite place. She wore the black restaurant uniform professionally, but something in her movements suggested she had seen better days.
“Yes, please,” Gael replied, sliding his glass towards her. “It’s an excellent Ribera del Duero.”
The young woman smiled as she poured the red wine. "My mother always said that the best wines tell stories from the country where they were produced."
Something about that sentence made Gael look at her more closely. It wasn't the kind of remark he would have expected from a young waitress, but rather something someone with genuine wine knowledge would say.
“Your mother has good taste,” Gael remarked.
"She worked in the industry." The young woman's expression darkened slightly. "She worked in vineyards from a young age, even before I was born. She always spoke of vineyards as if they were living beings."
Gael nodded with interest. Her way of talking about wine seemed familiar; he recognized this passion, for he had already observed it in Amélia when they visited vineyards together in their youth.
It happened at that exact moment. As the young woman poured the wine, her gaze fell upon Gael's right hand.
Her eyes widened. She blinked several times, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
"Excuse me, sir," she whispered, her voice trembling. "This ring... it's identical to my mother's."
Gael's world seemed to slow down. He looked at the wedding ring, then at the young woman's pale face.
"What did you say?"
“The ring,” she repeated, pointing with a trembling finger. “My mother has the exact same one. She always said it was unique, that there were only three of them.”
Gael's heart raced. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. The other two rings had been lost for decades. Unless…
“What is your mother’s name?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange even to himself.
“Amélia,” the young woman answered. “Amelia Costa.”
The name echoed in Gael's mind like thunder. Amélia. His Amélia. But she was dead. He had identified the body. He had attended the funeral. For twenty-three years he had wept at her grave.
"That... that's not possible," he stammered as the room spun around him. "Amélia is dead. In a car accident."
