Three Hard Knocks
Three sharp knocks struck the door.
Almost ten at night — too late for a polite visit, too precise for coincidence.
Each dry, firm blow made the wood shiver — less a request than a demand.
Damián crossed the room carefully. Magdalena stepped from the bedroom, heart heavy.
Camila peered from the kitchen and held out a hand to stop Luisito.
Damián opened the door.
A man in a dark suit stood there, leather briefcase in hand, face tight, eyes steady.
“Good evening. I’m looking for Mr. Ernesto Villarreal. This address appears as his last tax residence.”
“He doesn’t live here,” Damián said.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Do you know Mrs. Magdalena Rivas?”
“I do,” Damián began, but Magdalena stepped forward. “I’m she.”
The man handed her a sealed envelope stamped in red.
“Court summons. You must appear in three days. There is sufficient evidence against you.”
She took the envelope without a word. He turned and disappeared into the dark — faceless and cold, another servant of a justice that too often misses the mark.
Inside, Damián closed the door gently.
“I don’t want the children to worry,” Magdalena whispered.
“This isn’t just an attack anymore,” he said.
“It’s a war.”
She nodded. Fear rose — but with it, a steady anger. A need to stop being trampled.
