Chapter Four: The Idea.

Enric had already been staying at his friend's house for over two weeks, and the latter had refused to charge him rent for the room. So he decided to move out and take the risk of renting his own apartment. Against all odds, Rubén agreed to let him go. But he would stay until he found that apartment.

At work, he had been assigned a television series he read about in the portfolio, a different movie, and even a monthly serialized comic based on one of the company's shows that had stopped airing. From the very beginning, he had been given three simultaneous projects.

That Friday, both Enric and Rubén photocopied their respective folders and took the work home. Though he didn't want to admit it, the more experienced one had enjoyed the idea of playing with the characters and putting them in various situations.

One of Rubén's hidden talents was drawing, and before heading home, they stopped by Plaza de San Ildefonso, at a prestigious stationery store known in the industry, because he wanted to buy watercolor paper there.

The square, quite cozy, housed a church. In front of the church door stood a bronze statue of a university girl reading a book while walking. Enric was struck by the statue's smoothness; it wasn't very detailed, but the posture and accessories clearly indicated what it represented.

While Rubén went into the store to buy supplies, Enric's heart began to race. He looked down the street they had come from, and in one of the shops was a Japanese restaurant from which a young brunette with tanned skin, about his age, emerged. The girl turned around, talking to someone who hadn't yet exited the restaurant. A tall, dark-haired young man followed her, shook her hand, and kissed her. Behind them came that blonde he remembered so well, the young woman he recalled seeing a month earlier at Barajas airport or days later looking at the window display of an expensive pastry shop in Puerta del Sol.

The same face as Soraya, but it was someone else.

This time, Patricia had straight hair tied in a ponytail. The plaid shirt was just like one he had given Soraya for her birthday, only the colors were different. Two more guys came out behind the girl, and the five of them went for a walk. After seeing her again, he leaned against the church wall.

Enric had convinced himself that his guilt, his desire to return the girl's belongings to her family, the love he still felt for the deceased, and the knowledge of the existence of a twin sister had made him see Patricia in any girl who undoubtedly resembled Soraya.

But that girl hadn't been a mistake or confusion; she was real, as tangible as the wall, as solid as the ground he stood on, as real as himself.

When Rubén came out of the store, he found his friend pale and breathing heavily, eyes wide open. He tried to calm him down but couldn't.

They went home, and Enric lay on the sofa. He felt so confused that his limited gift of speech had turned into muteness. His mind still had to process that Soraya had hidden her family from him and him from her family. That, after nearly three years of living together, he barely knew her. And that hurt more than losing her the way he did. He felt betrayed. He cried lightly until he fell asleep. Rubén covered him with a mismatched sheet like a father would and continued with his routine.

That Saturday dawned cloudy. But the breeze was harsh and dry and brought no humidity. During the morning, both young men visited several real estate agencies without any results.

At the last minute, they decided to enter the one they had as a last resort, as it was hidden and looked shabby from the outside. Inside, it had only two desks but was very clean and organized for having so many samples.

Rubén barely said a word, and with how reserved Enric usually was, this time he wouldn't fail. They found a small studio on the same street as the company where they both worked and arranged to see it that same afternoon; it was the only one Enric liked.

They arrived at five in the afternoon. The studio was barely thirty square meters and shouldn't really be called a studio—it was a very small but cozy house. Upon entering, they found a ceramic cooktop with an oven, a small countertop, and a fridge installed on the wall by the entrance. In front of the fridge was a table with three chairs and a window above, almost in the corner. A lamp hung from the center of the living room ceiling. Directly opposite the entrance wall was a half-body window facing outside, and below it a red velvet armchair. Next to it, opposite the main door, was a full-body bookshelf with no books, but it also formed a corner. And right on the wall connecting the entrance door and that bookshelf were two doors and the burglar alarm.

The bedroom was the door on the left, with a ninety-centimeter-wide bed, a nightstand, and a full-body mirror. Right at the head of the bed was a window overlooking the interior patio. The bathroom was behind the other door; upon entering, you faced the toilet and the shower beside it. Next to the door was a tiny sink and a medicine cabinet mirror, and between that and the shower was a high, round window like a porthole.

The house was small, but so well organized that Enric loved it. To celebrate, they would have something the next day at Plaza de San Miguel.

They spent the rest of the afternoon working unofficially. At one point in the conversation about one of the stories, Enric suggested incorporating outdoor scenes.

"But you barely know Madrid, how could you think of that?"

Enric smiled slightly at his friend. What he suggested would involve sightseeing, and Rubén hadn't understood that.

After dinner, they watched TV and repeated their routine. Night fell early, and there was nothing interesting on the programming. This time, neither of them fell asleep before the other, and by eleven-thirty on a Saturday, they were already resting in their rooms.