Lucía lifts her head into the beam.
The light disappears.
Silence.
Five minutes later, she sits up. “Now,” she whispers.
You glance at Esteban.
“He won’t move,” she says.
The certainty unsettles you.
On the roof, under a sky scattered with hard stars, Lucía finally speaks.
It started before you moved here.
The closeness. The comments. The brushing past that felt deliberate. The doubt. The hesitation.
“He knew,” you whisper when she tells you about the hallway.
“Yes.”
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