The Montes de Oca mansion was elegant and immaculate—but eerily silent. Ever since Clara, Tomás’s first wife, died in a tragic car accident while bringing home a birthday gift for their son Leo, the house had lost its warmth. Leo survived, but the crash left him unable to walk. His laughter vanished that night.
Now seven years old, Leo spent his days in a wheelchair, gazing out the window at the garden he once ran through. His father, Tomás, buried himself in work. His new wife, Elisa, filled the home with a colder silence.
One afternoon, Leo sat near the piano, stacking blocks. Elisa stood behind him, arms crossed.
“You’ve been sitting there all morning,” she snapped. “Can’t you do something useful?”
Leo’s hands trembled. A block fell and rolled away.
“I… I’m trying,” he whispered.
“Trying?” she scoffed. “Your father gives you everything, and still—nothing. You can’t even sit without making a mess.”
Leo’s eyes welled up. He turned away.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she barked.
