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He had thought about burying it with her but decided instead to wear it always — a small, silent promise that he would never forget.
At fifty-four, Gael had made peace with solitude. He had no wife, no children, and no one who knew the real man behind his success. Only the vineyards, the endless rows of grapevines, and that ring reminded him of who he once was.
The Waitress
The voice startled him. He looked up to find a young waitress standing beside him, holding a bottle of his own brand of Ribera del Duero. She was slender, with chestnut hair pulled into a neat bun and eyes the color of dark honey. Something about her seemed oddly familiar — the shape of her smile, the way she moved, even her voice.
“Yes, please,” he said. “It’s an excellent vintage.”
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