The sun sank behind the tiled roofs, staining the Spanish sky with copper and rose. In front of the villa, wrought-iron gates stretched long shadows across the quiet street. Stone walls—warm, dignified—held decades of wealth and silence. Street lamps flickered on, their yellow glow blending with the last breath of day.
She stood just outside the gate, unsure where she was allowed to exist. No older than eighteen. Her dress was thin, frayed at the hem, dust-stained from the road. In her arms, a small child slept restlessly, wrapped in a blanket that had once been blue. Her grip was tight—not only from fear of dropping her sister, but from fear of being overlooked.
Exhaustion marked her face: dirt along her cheekbones, cracked lips, eyes dulled by too many sleepless nights. And still, behind them, something refused to collapse.
“Sir…” Her voice was soft, nearly lost in the evening air. “Do you need a maid? I can do anything. My sister is hungry. I know how to wash, cook…”
The man had been seconds from entering the gate. Well dressed. Silver at his temples. A posture shaped by certainty. He stopped.
Not from charity.
From instinct.
His gaze drifted—unbidden—to the side of her neck, where the collar of her dress had slipped. Beneath her skin lay a crescent-shaped birthmark.
The world went silent.
No street. No lamps. No child breathing.
Only memory.