The Spaniards.
They arrived with the morning sun—by car, music playing, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Spanish tourists, full of life and colour, sweeping into Saint-Mystère like a festival no one expected.
They brought everything with them: enormous hams wrapped in cloth, dark bottles of red wine glinting in the light, tins of olives, fresh garlic, and tomatoes so ripe they seemed to glow. On a folding table near the fountain, they prepared pan con tomate with the care of a ceremony. Passersby slowed their steps, drawn by the scent, the ease, the joy of it all.
They toasted often. To life, to friendship—perhaps even to Saint-Mystère, though no one could be sure.
And just as the sun slipped behind the hills, they packed up. Not hurriedly, but without farewell. No plates left behind. No trace of where they had gone.
We never learned their names.
But for one day, the village remembered how to breathe.