Where in the world are you listening from? Comment so I can say hello. Blessings to all. Continuing with the story. The Santa María home was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by old trees and silence. Dolores arrived the next day, armed with an expired ID and the determination of someone who has nothing to lose. Carmela Vega, the director of the home, was a 70-year-old woman with wrinkled hands and eyes that had seen too much childhood suffering. She received Dolores in her office with suspicion.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, ma’am. The girl is under protection.” You cannot receive unauthorized visitors. “I just want to talk to you,” Dolores said about Salomé, about how she got here. Carmela was silent for a moment, assessing the woman in front of her. Something about Dolores inspired trust. Perhaps it was her age, perhaps the weary gaze of someone who had fought many battles. “The girl arrived six months ago,” Carmela began. Her uncle Gonzalo brought her. He said he couldn’t take care of her anymore, that his business wouldn’t allow it.
But there was something strange. Strange. How so? The girl had marks, ma’am, bruises on her arms that no one wanted to explain, and since she arrived, she hardly speaks. She eats little, sleeps even less, has nightmares every night. Dolores felt a chill. And after the meeting with her father, have you seen her? Carmela lowered her gaze. Since she returned from prison, Salomé hasn’t uttered a single word. The doctors say there’s nothing physical wrong. It’s as if something has closed inside her, as if she’s said everything she needed to say and now remains silent forever.
Dolores looked toward the A window, where a blonde girl was playing alone in the yard. What did she say to her father, Carmela? Does anyone know? No one. But whatever it was, it’s destroying that girl from the inside. Five years earlier, the night that changed everything, the Fuentes house was silent. Sara had put Salomé to bed early, as she did every night. The three-year-old slept clutching her teddy bear, oblivious to the hell that was about to break loose.
In the living room, Ramiro Fuentes was drinking his fourth glass of whiskey. He had lost his job that week. The carpentry shop, where he had worked for 20 years, closed without warning. At his age, he didn’t know how to start over. Sara was on the phone in the kitchen. Her voice was a furious whisper. “I told you not to look for me anymore. What you did is unforgivable. If you don’t fix this, I’m going to talk. I don’t care what you threaten me with.” She hung up violently and saw Ramiro watching her from the doorway.
“Who were you talking to?” “No one.” Go to sleep. You’ve had enough to drink. Ramiro wanted to ask more questions, but the alcohol was already clouding his thoughts.
He slumped onto the living room sofa and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was fast asleep. What happened next, Ramiro wouldn’t remember, but someone else would. Salomé woke to the sound of a door. She got out of bed and walked into the hallway. From the shadows, she saw something her three-year-old eyes couldn’t comprehend, but that her memory would forever hold.
A figure entered the house. A man the little girl knew well. A man who always wore blue shirts and brought her candy when he visited. Sara screamed, then silence. Little Salomé hid in the hallway closet, trembling, as the man in the blue shirt walked toward where her father slept. Dolores spent the entire night reviewing the Fuentes case file.
Hundreds of pages, photographs she preferred not to remember, testimonies, expert reports—everything pointed to Ramiro: his fingerprints, his clothes, his lack of a solid alibi. But there were cracks, small, almost invisible, but they were there.
