At Jardín de Madreselva, unusual things don’t really happen. Or not that kind, at least. Everything tends to be just as it should: the courtyard, the light, the sound of water, that slow rhythm that settles in between lunch and the evening service.
And yet, that’s exactly how it began.
It was that quiet moment when the restaurant pauses. Chairs in place, glasses ready, the soft murmur of the fountain filling the space. That was when Soumaya —who has a remarkable eye for detail— suddenly stopped.
She leaned in a little closer.
There was something moving beneath the water.
“Sorry… since when do we have fish?”
It was, to be fair, a very reasonable question.
Three goldfish. Not one, not two. Three. Moving with complete ease, as if they had always been there. The fountain, until that moment, had simply been that: a fountain. Suddenly, it had inhabitants.
And of course, curiosity followed.
No one on the team had placed them there.
No guest had mentioned anything.
There was no sign of how they had arrived.
And the fish, naturally, offered no clues.
Rather than confusion, what emerged was a quiet sense of intrigue.
Theories began to circulate. A thoughtful gesture left unspoken. A child’s small secret. A passing traveller with unexpected ideas. Or, as someone in the kitchen said, half-seriously: “things the Levante wind brings.”
“And why three?”
A good question.
Over the following days, they stopped being a surprise and simply became part of the place. Not only were they doing well, they seemed to belong. Moving calmly, following the light, growing used to the people who paused to watch them.
By the end of the week, they were just one more element of the garden.
Guests began to notice. Conversations softened for a moment by the fountain. Children leaned in with curiosity. And more than a few people, without quite realising why, lingered a little longer than planned.
The mystery remains. No one has said, “it was me.” There’s no clear explanation. Just three fish that appeared one day… and decided to stay.
And somehow, it makes sense.
Because in a place like Madreselva, when something arrives —even unannounced— the natural thing is to make space for it. To take care of it. To let it stay.
Like everything that’s worth it.
