Morning Stillness
Dawn came without a sound. A warm breeze slipped through the half-open door. The first sunlight touched the metal roofs outside. Inside, the silence felt sacred. The children slept on borrowed blankets. Magdalena had not closed her eyes.
Damián appeared with two clay cups. He offered one. Coffee—warm and simple. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” he asked gently. “I can’t,” she said. “It still feels unreal.” He sat on a small stool. “You’re safe here, Magda. You and the children. No one will touch you.”
She nodded, eyes distant. From marble dining room to tin roof, from powerful husband to a shared home—yet she did not complain. Painful as it was, this loss carried a quiet that had never existed in the old house. Minutes passed with only the sound of dishes being washed in the next room.
“Remember when you wanted to go to Puebla?” Damián said with a wry smile. “You wanted to learn baking.” Magdalena was surprised. No one had spoken of her dreams for years. “I said it as a joke,” she murmured. “It didn’t look like a joke,” he said. “You had that look—like someone who wanted more.”
