The house is small enough that nothing can hide.
A narrow sofa sags beneath folded laundry. A pot simmers on a two-burner stove. Schoolbooks are stacked beside a half-empty canister of powdered milk, and a line of damp children’s clothes hangs across the kitchen like a surrender flag. On the table, under a chipped ceramic mug full of pencils, lies an envelope stamped with the logo of Mendoza Urban Development.
Your logo.
The sight of it lands harder than it should, like catching your own reflection in a stranger’s window. You step forward before you can stop yourself. “What is that?” you ask, and your voice comes out sharper than intended, because some part of you already knows the answer.
Carlos follows your gaze, and something in his face closes.
