He turned, his steps deliberate, his shoes making a soft click on the gravel as he walked toward the van. He did not pause to hug the girls, did not place a hand on their heads, did not ask if they needed anything. He simply walked, the door of the van opening as he approached, the woman in sunglasses stepping forward, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Night in the Old House
The drive home was a blur of orange streetlights and the hum of the car engine. I could feel the weight of the three girls in the back seat, their small bodies curled up, the scent of Rosa’s perfume still clinging faintly to the fabric of the seat covers.
When we entered the house, the silence was deafening. The house smelled of old wood, of the faint ash of the fire that had long ago been extinguished, of the lingering scent of the soup I would soon make.
I lit the stove, the flame licking the bottom of the pot, and began to prepare a simple chicken soup. The broth bubbled, steam rising, carrying with it the scent of onions and garlic. I tore off a fresh tortilla, warmed it on a skillet, the sound of it crackling like distant fireworks.
Renata slipped into a chair, her small hands clutching one of Rosa’s blouses, the fabric soft from years of wear. She fell asleep almost immediately, her breathing even, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Abril clung to my hand, refusing to let go, her eyes wide and unblinking, as if she expected the walls to shift at any moment.
Lucía sat by the window, her silhouette framed by the pale light of the streetlamp outside. She stared into the darkness, the world beyond the glass a blur of shadows.
