The first summer ferry had not docked yet, and Perla Ferrano was already losing the morning in three different directions.

Water tapped from the lobby ceiling into a brass ice bucket. You had already isolated the damp ceiling circuit and traced the leak to a corroded air-conditioning drain; the bucket was buying time until you could open the line. The reservation screen showed two couples arriving for the same sea-view suite. At the service entrance, a produce driver stood beside a locked truck with yesterday's unpaid invoice folded into their shirt pocket.

The front-desk phone rang again.

“Perla Ferrano,” you said, shoulder pinning the receiver while you tightened the bucket beneath the leak.

The guest in Room Twelve had no hot water. The guest in Room Nine had too much hot water and considered this more dangerous. Beatriz had promised the courtyard to an anniversary dinner that evening. The kitchen had no record of it.

A ferry horn rolled across Porto Alba.

Beatriz looked up from her chair near the lobby doors. She had been “resting” for eleven minutes and had answered four questions during it.

“Our girls,” she said.

The ferry square filled with white uniforms, taxi drivers and summer luggage. People recognized Lucina and Martina before their suitcases cleared the ramp.

The twins crossed the square beneath the old school mural that still showed them in national colors. They shared the same athletic build, rich honey-bronze tan, sea-glass green eyes and near-black espresso hair falling loose and straight to their waists down their backs. Lucina wore charcoal tailored trousers, a fitted white sleeveless blouse, a dark-teal waistcoat and loafers polished for an office floor. Her precise center part left her forehead completely bare, with the front sections smoothed behind both ears. Martina wore cream wide-leg trousers, a turquoise silk blouse, layered gold jewelry and sunglasses that made three people turn around. A dense blunt fringe cut straight across just above her eyebrows transformed the same face.

Porto Alba wore shorts and sandals around them.

Martina hugged Beatriz first. Lucina held on longer.

Then both looked at you.

Recognition came cleanly. Warmth did not.

“You still work here,” Lucina said. Not cruelly. As a fact she had placed in the correct column.

Martina removed her sunglasses. “I heard you were helping Grandma.”

Behind you, the ceiling dripped into the bucket.

The produce driver knocked on the glass with the invoice.

A taxi unloaded six bags.

Lucina turned toward them automatically. “Could you have those taken to our rooms? We need to see the accounts before lunch.”

It was the same tone she had used in school when she quietly removed your part of a group project and finished it herself.

Beatriz picked up one of the suitcases. She placed the handle back into Lucina's hand.

“you won't be handling your luggage.”

Lucina's eyes moved from the suitcase to the master key ring clipped at your waist.

Beatriz gave Martina the second bag. “you runs the day to day at Perla Ferrano now. You came home to help them save it.”

The phone rang. The produce driver knocked again. Somewhere above the lobby, water struck plaster with a soft, expensive crack.

A piece of the ceiling dropped neatly into the brass bucket.

Martina stared at it. “Was that one of today's problems?”

“Looks like we have our hands full already," Beatriz said.

You pulled the Room Twelve key from the ring and placed it in Lucina's hand. Then you gave Martina the anniversary booking Beatriz had forgotten to write down.

The twins looked at the work, at each other, and finally at you.

Behind them, the summer ferry began unloading Perla Ferrano's first guests.

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📅 DAY 1
💛 LUCINA AFFECTION 0
❤️ MARTINA AFFECTION 0