Camila’s lips trembled before she finally spoke.
“If we know,” she whispered, “then every time I look at him, I will also see this room.”
Alejandro turned toward her fully.
That was the first moment Mariana saw not a powerful man, but a husband caught between protecting the woman beside him and honoring the child ahead.
Outside, a trolley rattled down the hall.
Somewhere an infant cried, strong and offended at the world, the sound shockingly ordinary against the fracture opening here.
Camila’s fingers tightened around the sheet.
“I need him to be a gift tonight,” she said. “Not evidence.”
No one replied.
Even the doctor stayed quiet, because he knew comfort had just argued on his behalf more effectively than any defense ever could.
Alejandro looked at the chart on the counter.
Then at the nurse who had spoken. Then at Mariana, still standing by the wall with wet shoes and a bleeding hand.
His breathing slowed in a way that made time feel wrong.
Not faster, not slower, just stretched thin, each inhale deliberate, each exhale carrying the weight of a door about to open.
Mariana knew that look.
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