On Jordi's lower leg is an already almost indiscernible scar, left when he was nine years old. Young Jordi always loved to sit on the benches that lined the town plaza, hugging his knees, spacing out as he stared at the lighthouse statue in the plaza's center. Whenever he did, he did so for the whole day. Jordi had carefully chosen his position, and watching from this angle at sunset, the sinking sun in the west would line up with the tip of the lighthouse for the briefest moment, like this tiny little lighthouse too had come alight. Regrettably, it was a fleeting scene, and in the span of a few short breaths, the lighthouse statue would once again go out. Everything about it would be rapidly shrouded in shadow, engulfed by darkness. What he had just witnessed was much like an illusion, gone without a trace. Fortunately, the sun would rise as it did before the next day, and the lighthouse would come alight again. Just for a moment, of course. On the day of his ninth birthday, Jordi decided to do something big. He wanted to grab hold of something more lasting. He'd try and see for himself what the town's elder workers were so proud of yet kept so secret, see for himself the colossal structure the parents he'd never met had disappeared in, see for himself that true 'Eye of Iberia.' Jordi began to climb the statue in the plaza, believing as long as he stood on its top, he'd be able to see the true rays of the lighthouse piercing through the fog. He clambered inch by inch, hearing the passersby in the plaza shrieking frantically, but the top was right there before him, he just had to make one final leap... Jordi suddenly felt himself falling—the protrusion he'd used as footing likely crumbled—but why he was falling was no longer important. Jordi had struggled so he could cast his sight far away. Even if it was only for a split-second, he wanted to see it. Nothing. There was nothing. The fog was like a gauze, covering all upon the surface of the sea. When Jordi came to, he was already back at home, his leg bandaged, the scent of meat porridge pervading the room. Hearing the sound of Jordi turning over, Thiago poked his body out of the kitchen. Jordi thought he'd be in for a ferocious scolding, but Thiago simply stared at him for a moment, let out a sigh, and pointed in the direction of the desk. There was laid a spyglass, glittering in alluring bronze. That was a bygone affair, years and years ago, and now the scar has even faded. Only the small town's plaza seems to have been overlooked by time, resting unchanged. Jordi sits in his younger self's most favorite spot. Now he's seen the true Eye of Iberia, yet he can no longer sit on this bench with his uncle, listening to those heart-racing stories, taking turns at the spyglass through which they'd gaze far away. But even with the help of a spyglass, they still couldn't see anything. It was the one thing the two of them silently, tacitly, never mentioned to each other.