The days after Don Tomás’s funeral did not pass—they dragged, heavy and suffocating, like a sky that refused to clear after a storm.
Marisol quickly learned that grief was not the only thing waiting for her.
There was judgment.
There were whispers.
There were eyes—always watching.
Every morning, when she stepped outside the hacienda, conversations would soften… then stop entirely.
…
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
