Then, gripping the edge of her blanket with both hands, she says, “It started before we moved here.”

You remain silent.

She keeps her eyes on the neighboring rooftops instead of you. “At first I thought it was in my head. Tomás worked late shifts, and sometimes Esteban would stop by the apartment—bringing groceries, asking if the landlord had fixed something. He was always helpful. Always polite.” Her mouth tightens. “Then one afternoon, he stood too close in the kitchen.”

Cold spreads through your arms.

“He brushed against me when there was no need,” Lucía continues. “I stepped away and told myself it meant nothing. After that came the comments. Small ones. About my hair. My mouth. How a dress fit. The kind of things a decent man can always claim were harmless if a woman dares to repeat them.”

Your skin feels too tight.

“And you told Tomás?”

Lucía shuts her eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t sure yet.” Her voice trembles for the first time. “Because if I said it wrong, I’d be the one who poisoned the family. Because Esteban is respected, and I was the new wife from a small town who still got lost on city buses and hadn’t finished my paperwork at the clinic. Because men like him rely on hesitation.”

For a moment, the stars blur before your vision steadies.

You lower yourself onto the low wall across from her. The concrete still holds a trace of warmth from the day. “What happened after you moved in?”

Lucía inhales slowly. “The first week was fine because everyone was around. Then one night I woke up and saw light under our bedroom door. I thought maybe your mother was unwell or Tomás had forgotten something. But when I opened it slightly, no one was there. Just the hallway.” She swallows. “The next night, I heard footsteps stop outside our room.”

Your hands tighten on your knees.

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