At dawn, Lucía is already in the kitchen.
She stands at the stove in one of her simple cotton dresses, stirring a pot of oatmeal as if the night had been uneventful. Pale morning light spills through the narrow window and catches in the loose strands of hair around her face. If not for the memory of that light slicing across your bedroom wall, you might have convinced yourself it had all been a dream.
You linger in the doorway, watching her.
She notices you before you speak. “
Coffee’s ready,” she says without turning.
You stay where you are. “Who was outside our room last night?”
The spoon stills.
