The clock read 8:43 a.m. It was late. Later than I should have slept on a Sunday morning. But then I remembered the snow. It had started just after we’d arrived home from the Biltmore the night before. It wasn’t much—only a few inches—but three inches in North Carolina was enough for everything to shut down. Even church. I could vaguely recall John sticking his head into my bedroom just past seven and letting me know. It had been blissful settling back into the covers knowing I had nowhere to be. I hadn’t expected to doze back off or stay asleep so long. It felt so indulgent. And . . . amazing.

I stretched and stood, wondering if Simon was already awake. On the foot of my bed, there was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick twine. My name was written on the front. I reached for it, sitting back down on the corner of my bed.

When I pulled off the last of the paper, I gasped. It was an original-print Spanish edition of Cien Años de Soledad, One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez. An exact copy of my father’s book—the one I had lost. My heart started pounding. There was only one person who knew just how much the book meant to me. But what was he trying to say with the gift? What did it mean?

I opened the front cover and read the inscription there, which was written in a light, loose script. It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment. It wasn’t signed or dated. It could have been Simon who wrote it, but it was a used copy of the book. It just as easily could have come with the inscription.

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and shrugged into my sweater before hurrying down the stairs, my new book clutched closely to my chest. I needed answers. And quick.

Simon didn’t strike me as a guy who could sleep in—he was too pragmatic for that—so I was surprised when I didn’t see him in the kitchen having breakfast with everyone else.

“Good morning, mija,” Abuela said. “Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. Have you seen Simon this morning?”

“I don’t think he’s up yet,” Dad said.

“I’ll go see.” I hurried to the basement steps just off the kitchen. If there was ever a place one might sleep later than expected, my parents’ basement was it. It was fully finished and was a nice space, but it was a true basement. No windows anywhere. Dad had set up a projector and turned it into a giant movie room when we were kids, and we’d used it well. More than once, we’d stumbled up the steps, bleary-eyed from hours-long movie marathons, surprised to see sunlight shining through the kitchen windows.