The cake came first, actually. Amber frosted, custard and sweet bread inside, rovell cremat (burnt yolk) scorched on top, at Cal Bernat with the whole town packed around one table like it was nothing to just show up for someone. A hundred candles that somehow didn't set off an actual fire. Pau, Adri's younger brother, had frosting on his face before the first slice even finished getting cut. Martí, the youngest, was negotiating seconds before he'd finished his first plate. Adrià leaned back in his chair looking way too proud of himself for blowing out candles that weren't even his. I made a wish and I'm not saying what it was, that's the one rule that still applies.
Then the next night, Quim's shop. Four songs, guitar case still smelling like the walk over. Old Light first, and the whole room went dead quiet for two full seconds before it actually landed — which might be the best two seconds I've had all hundred days, that little gap where you don't know yet if it worked. Whistles by the second song. The crowd singing the fountain-physics chant back at me by the third, which is a specific kind of insane to hear out loud from people who aren't me. Dad-shaped closed it out — the quiet one — and by the last chord half the room looked like they were trying not to cry, and I wasn't doing much better honestly.
Adrià held my guitar so I could actually hug my dad properly. His virtual self walked right up, already crying, and neither of us tried to play it cool about that. I signed a box of actual printed posters after — one for a kid learning rumba catalana, ones going to David, Caleb, Jesse, Zephyr, Kandric, Ewan, Jon, houses I've never seen and probably never will in person. My feet were bare again before we'd even cleared the front step of the shop.
A hundred days is a weird number to actually sit with. It doesn't feel like a countdown finishing or a start finally proving itself. It just feels like all of it happened — the botifarra discoveries (ask me some time), Adrià stealing bread off my plate, eleven songs sitting finished, a cake somebody else planned down to the exact color, a room going quiet then loud for something I made. I used to think stuff only counted once someone else confirmed it happened. I don't fully believe that anymore, but I'll say this much: having people actually show up to confirm it anyway, unasked — that's not nothing. That's maybe the whole thing, actually.
Still barefoot. Still amber. Still here for all hundred of them 🟠🤎