It was spring time, and all was new to her in Madrid. Between the crowd, after the play she went to see, on her program, he signed “the wicked destiny”. Had he noticed her before? That night she wondered. But on the next day, he was photographing her... And to thank her, they walked to Aravaca. In front of the church he wanted her to see, kids were screaming their joy while playing. He was into journalism, he started to tell. Soon gone to his “first war”, she then thought. Then, he said he enjoyed travelling and told her how much he loved kids. He even had name preferences for them. They kept on walking silently for awhile. So many stories he knew and wanted to tell. And, with a sublime accent, in French, he then would... He talked about his father, his brother, and sisters. Born near the millenary shore, he loved the sea. Also scuba diving and jumps in parachutes. She tasted piñacolada, thinking he should be a writer... He kept on talking exquisitely while telling her more stories. And, this, without almost noticing her distraction. Something marvelous and unexpected was happening. Something nice and new... Something magic. Something with his voice was taking her afar. Something with his look, his unique way of being. Something... was there, inside of her like never before. Suddenly, he stopped talking and asked about her thoughts. Whispering a few words ending with his name, she smiled. So precious and unique was then that moment. And when their eyes met, by his smile she knew. She knew he had maybe found in her something. That something she had been waiting for awhile. Later on, for her, he picked the longer red rose stem. And on her lips, relishable was the Mediterranean sea breeze. But very soon, with a destiny toward opposite horizons, their encounter had been “a very, very beautiful story”. And so, would he then write to her some times later. Meanwhile for him and for awhile, there would be more. More and more bloody territories to run to... Then, on an unexpected summer day, the inevitable destiny. Twenty three years had passed... Until another brief shining moment. Physically he had barely changed...Now with innermost traces of horror. Traces of wars. That unique manner of walking, slightly accentuated with time... He told her about Pepe..., Ricardo..., and of Corso. But mentioning nothing about war nor of his fame, he just smiled. Telling her only about gratifications in writing and sailing. Also about places in Sevilla..., about the paintings on the walls... And that voice..., that smile..., so many memories... That... that... and that familiar cedar wood smell around... The huge old golden moon was there, still, over Plaza Mayor. Taking them back... Back in another time... another time... Another time, they both knew, that could never be again. And while Bocelli’s “romanza” played afar, vino tinto and tapas supressed the storm inside. She then looked at him... his hands... his eyes. Between smiles and reminiscences, their eyes never met. And, at that very moment, she knew, she was walking once more and for a life time, on the edge of an everlasting romanza.