She turned the photo over. On the other side, in her own handwriting, she had written a single line:
She grabbed her coat, left the apartment without locking the door, and walked to the nearest travel agency.
She called them mis marcadores móviles —my mobile bookmarks. mis marcadores moviles
But there was one thing Sofía collected everywhere she went: bookmarks.
One rainy Tuesday in a temporary studio apartment in Buenos Aires, Sofía picked up an old copy of Rayuela —Hopscotch—by Julio Cortázar. She had read it years ago, in another lifetime. As she opened it, something fell out. She turned the photo over
A photograph.
That night, she bought a one-way ticket to Granada. But there was one thing Sofía collected everywhere
She didn’t remember putting it there. In the image, she was laughing, her hair shorter, her eyes wider. Next to her stood a man with a crooked smile and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. On the back, in smudged ink: Sofía + Mateo. Granada. Puente de los Suspiros. Otoño.