The next morning, you arrive at Corporativo Monte Real with your stomach tied in knots so tight it feels like somebody cinched a rope around your ribs overnight.
You barely sleep after Alejandro Villaseñor leaves your house. Every time you close your eyes, you see him standing in your doorway with polished shoes in the dust and that strange look on his face, not disgust, not pity, but something worse because it is harder to defend against. Respect. Real respect can feel more dangerous than cruelty when you have spent most of your life learning how to survive contempt. Contempt is predictable. Respect makes you hope, and hope has sharp teeth.
You tell yourself all the way to work that it means nothing.
Men like Alejandro do not walk into neighborhoods like yours and come out changed. They come out moved for one evening, maybe two, then they return to glass offices and climate control and forget the smell of damp wood and boiled beans. They remember the story, perhaps. The image. The emotional inconvenience. But not the people inside it. You know this because the city is full of rich men who like being briefly touched by struggle the same way tourists like sunsets. Beautiful from a safe distance.
