By the time Lucía lifted her head beneath the heavy wool blanket, blocking that thin blade of light under the door, every trace of sleep left my body.
My heart hammered so hard I was sure the person outside could hear it.
I still did not understand what was happening in my own bedroom, but one thing became terrifyingly clear.
My sister-in-law was not sleeping in my bed because she was strange.
She was protecting herself from someone.
The narrow strip of light stayed for two more seconds.
Then it vanished.
A soft sound moved in the hallway, controlled and careful, before silence swallowed the house again.
Lucía kept her hand over mine until my breathing calmed. She did not shake. She did not speak. Beside her, my husband Esteban slept with the peaceful rhythm of a man who had heard nothing.
At dawn, Lucía was already in the kitchen, stirring oatmeal like nothing had happened.
I stood in the doorway.
“Who was outside our room last night?”
Her hand froze for half a second.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You took my hand,” I whispered. “You blocked the light on purpose.”
Her face went pale.
“Please,” she said, glancing toward the ceiling. “Not here.”
That answer frightened me more than a denial.
That night, after everyone slept, we met on the roof.
Puebla stretched around us in quiet lights and cold air. Lucía sat on an overturned bucket, clutching her blanket.
