One-Way Ticket

Like a banked fire, the Munich commission funds remained in Mateo's bank account, providing warmth and potential energy in the face of the visa denial's lingering chill. The equation was altered. He dreamed and researched for hours on the internet. Could the sizeable payment, which is evidence of work done abroad, be used to support the earlier rejection by demonstrating financial stability and professional relationships? Would it sound more acceptable to describe the trip specifically as artistic research—visiting galleries in Los Angeles, looking for inspiration—rather than ambiguous "tourism"?

A gamble, it was. The embassy official's remarks about the need for strong ties continued to echo ominously. However, the commission itself seemed to be a sign, a cosmic prod. He chose to take a chance. He used his money to pay for a quick online consultation with an immigration advice service, which confirmed that, although it was risky, reapplying with much better financial proof might be able to reverse the 221(g) rejection, though success was by no means assured.

Equipped with this sliver of professional support, Mateo painstakingly put together a fresh set of paperwork, including a copy of the commission agreement with Elina Vance, updated bank statements demonstrating the sizeable deposit, pictures of the completed artwork, and even a courteous letter detailing his plans for "artistic research" in Los Angeles. His heart thumping nervously against his ribs, he made the online reconsideration request. There was no timeframe for a response, and no assurance. He might be turned down once more after waiting for weeks.

He was impatient. The pressure to act, the money, and the momentum were all too great. It was like letting the fire go out when you waited. He navigated to a low-cost airline website that evening, driven by a reckless surge of now-or-never energy. Filtering by the lowest price, he looked for flights from Lisbon to Los Angeles. The least expensive options included difficult layovers, claustrophobic seats, and stringent baggage restrictions, but one itinerary that left in a little more than two weeks fit his budget.

Over the 'Confirm Booking' button, his finger lingered. It was this. the point at which there is no way back. By clicking this, the unattainable dream became a tangible, horrifying reality. He recalled the Griffith Observatory, a crown on a hill, which was Seraphina's hesitant hint. He considered the overwhelming burden of his life in Portugal, the commission's taste of artistic approval, and the irresistible allure of the dream connection. He made a click. The screen for confirmation came up. Los Angeles (LAX) to Lisbon (LIS). A date. One moment. Actual. Unchangeable.

One of the most difficult things he had ever done was to tell his parents. He seated them at the tiny kitchen table and began by telling them about the art commission. His voice was full of genuine pride as he showed them images of the painting and the invoice. Pride and concern were mixed together in his mother's eyes. Even though he was impressed, his father nodded slowly.

Then the more difficult part arrived. Mateo said, "I used the money," as he braced himself. "I have a flight scheduled. to Los Angeles.

The glaring fear took the place of his mother's pride. "Mateo! América? By yourself? Why? It's so far away, so risky! What are you going to do there? "Where are you going to stay?" Her voice faltered.

The coffee cups jumped when his father slammed his hand on the table. Have you gone insane? after you were turned down by the embassy? You waste a lot of money on this fantasy?

Mateo attempted to clarify, leaving out the dreams and emphasizing the "artistic research" angle, the necessity of seeing outside of their town, the potential for inspiration, and possibly even more commissions. Even he felt his words were hollow. He was unable to describe the true motivation. His father was furious and perplexed, and his mother was pleading as the conversation became heated and emotional. It ended with an unspoken fear hanging between them, not with understanding but with a heavy, worried silence. Before going to bed, his mother gave him a tight hug while tears streamed down her face. "My dear, exercise caution. Please use caution.

The following day, he discovered Rui leaning against the sea wall and gazing out at the waves at the harbor. Mateo just held up his phone to show him the flight confirmation.

Rui narrowed his eyes at the screen and then glanced up at Mateo, whose face was momentarily unreadable. Then he whistled, low and long. "You did it, in fact. You are an insane, insane jerk. This time, he wasn't laughing. "Mate, I still believe you're chasing ghosts. However, wow. He shook his head, his natural skepticism mingled with a grudging admiration. "It was pure luck that got that commission. "Hollywood won't be like Munich, will it?"

"I know," Mateo muttered.

"Got your visa sorted then?" Rui frowned and asked.

Mateo paused. "I've submitted another application. New documents were sent. Awaiting a response.

Rui gazed at him. "You purchased the ticket prior to receiving your visa? "Mateo!" He appeared to deflate a little after raising his hands in frustration. He gave Mateo a firm shoulder clap. "Look, just watch out. Really. It's not like this place. Keep your head down and don't believe anyone who makes an offer that seems too good to be true. And give me a call. Please let me know if you made it safely. Despite the roughness, the worry was evident.

Working his last shifts at the café (Senhor Alves just grunted when Mateo gave his notice), packing his few possessions, and coping with the crippling weight of his family's anxiety filled the last few days before departure.

The actual packing was a harsh, quick act of air. Three pairs of old jeans, a few t-shirts and sweaters, socks, underwear, basic toiletries, his priceless sketchbook, charcoal sticks, and graphite pencils were all spread out on his bed. He included the brand-new set of sketching pens he had purchased using a very small portion of the commission funds. That was it. His whole life was prepared to be crammed into one shabby backpack that fit the constrictive size requirements of the low-cost airline. He gazed at the sparse pile before picturing the expansive, glistening scene of Seraphina's world of recording studios and mansions in Los Angeles. The difference was nearly hilarious, nearly deafening. The simple act of folding each item with care felt ceremonial and profound.

He had trouble sleeping the night before his bus ride to the Lisbon airport. Slipping out of the quiet apartment, he strolled through the town that was asleep. The air was filled with the familiar smell of night jasmine and salt. As he made his way to the harbor, he listened to the tide's sigh and the boats' steady creak. He had only ever known this small town, with all its restrictions and annoyances. With the courage that came from a single art commission and the whispers in his dreams, he was leaving it all behind. Fear twisted in his gut, cold and sharp. Was he courageous, or completely stupid? The vast, dark Atlantic, which separated him from Seraphina and the unattainable future he was speeding toward, was visible to him. He would try to cross it tomorrow. The ticket was purchased. Now there was no going back.