As our conversation continued, I noticed the small details of her home—each carefully chosen decoration, the neatly stacked magazines on the coffee table, and the subtle warmth of the dim lighting. It was a reflection of Maria herself: thoughtful, meticulous, and quietly proud.
The air between us had shifted; the initial tension had eased into a comfortable camaraderie. But as much as I enjoyed our exchange, the mystery of the photos lingered at the back of my mind.
« May I ask, » I began hesitantly, « how you came to have so many pictures of our family? They’re quite personal. »
Maria looked at me, her expression unreadable. « I’ve been with your family a long time, » she said simply. « These photos remind me of the good times we’ve shared. »
Her answer was both reassuring and perplexing. Was her attachment to my family purely sentimental, or did it hint at something more?
I decided to leave the question hanging, trusting that time would reveal what words couldn’t. As I prepared to leave, Maria walked me to the door, her presence as calm and comforting as ever.
« Thank you for the invitation, » she said, her eyes meeting mine with a sincerity that was hard to doubt.
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