The sharp, invasive strip of light holds for two more agonizing seconds. It paints a harsh yellow line against the baseboard s.
Then, it slips away.
A faint rustle follows in the hallway outside. It is so slight, so meticulously controlled, that it could easily be mistaken for the ancient pipes of our home settling, or a cold draft moving beneath the eaves of the Puebla night. After that, silence settles back over the room—a dense, absolute, suffocating silence, like a heavy hand clamped violently over the house’s mouth.
Lucía continues to hold my fingers. She does not grip them tightly, nor does she tremble. She simply rests her small, calloused hand over mine, warm and terrifyingly steady beneath the blanket, waiting until my breathing slows enough not to betray my sudden, blinding panic. Beside her, my husband, Esteban, remains deeply asleep. One arm is thrown casually across his pillow, his chest rising and falling with the maddening, rhythmic calm of a man who has heard nothing at all.
I lie there for what feels like an hour, though the clock on the nightstand tells me it cannot be more than five minutes. My mind races, frantically searching the dark corners of the room for rational explanations, finding absolutely none that make sense.
When Lucía finally lets go of my hand, she does not whisper a single word. She does not sit up to check the door. She only settles back against the mattress, her eyes wide open, staring into the pitch-black ceiling as if willing the morning sun to forcefully drag itself over the horizon. I stay upright a moment longer, my spine rigid against the headboard, my mouth tasting like dry ash.
At dawn, Lucía is already downstairs in the kitchen.
