You scoff, adjust your cufflinks, and decide that discipline requires confrontation, while Patricia, your assistant, gently reminds Maria Elena that she never stole time or trust.
You barely listen, already labeling the lack of respect, practicing your cold face in the mirrors, uttering the phrase that freezes the rooms: “Give me her address.”
The address appears: Calle Los Naranjos 847, Barrio San Miguel, distance coded in letters, a place you imagine crowded, noisy, chaotic, everything you trained yourself to avoid.
You claim that you are driven by principles, not curiosity, and you refuse to acknowledge a pull under your ribs, the memory of a sister, Sofia, and the pain buried beneath your work.
Patricia suggests security; you refuse, insisting that authority does not need protection, believing that you are only confirming a lie and not unraveling a life.
Your Mercedes glides from wealth into narrowing streets, shopfronts become opaque, the heat thickens, the pavement cracks, children are barefoot, laughter is loud, dogs sleep, time slows down.
People look at your car as if it were a rumor, your suit suddenly looks like a costume, your chin is raised to hide your discomfort, your identity built on never seeming uncertain.
House 847 waits, the blue paint is peeling, the wood is cracking, silence builds as you step outside, curiosity intensifies, the neighborhood watches.
You knock loudly, hoping they will obey, but instead you hear muffled, trailing voices, the faint cry of a baby slipping through the door.
Maria Elena slowly opens her apron, stained, her eyes sunken with tiredness, fear draining from her face as she whispers your name like an alarm trigger.
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