She does not grip tightly. She simply rests her hand over yours, warm and steady beneath the blanket, until your breathing slows enough not to betray your panic. Beside her, your husband Esteban remains asleep, one arm thrown across his pillow, his chest rising and falling with the maddening calm of a man who has heard nothing at all.
You lie there what feels like an hour, though it cannot be more than five minutes.
When Lucía finally lets go of your hand, she does not whisper. She does not sit up. She only settles back against the mattress and stares into the darkness as if willing morning to come. You stay upright a moment longer, your back rigid, your mouth dry, your thoughts racing for explanations and finding none that make sense.
At dawn, Lucía is already in the kitchen.
She stands at the stove in one of her simple cotton dresses, stirring a pot of oatmeal as if the night had been uneventful. Pale morning light spills through the narrow window and catches in the loose strands of hair around her face. If not for the memory of that light slicing across your bedroom wall, you might have convinced yourself it had all been a dream.
You linger in the doorway, watching her.
She notices you before you speak. “Coffee’s ready,” she says without turning.
