She turned.
Julián Fierro stood by the village store, immense, broad-shouldered, black-bearded, wearing a wool coat, gray eyes stormy. He didn’t greet her. He didn’t smile. He looked her over with a mix of resignation and disappointment.
—Yes. I’m Emilia.
—I thought it would be stronger.
She lifted her chin.
—You thought wrong, Mr. Fierro.
A murmur ran through the crowd. An old woman crossed herself. A man stifled a laugh. Julián grabbed the suitcase with one hand and tossed it into the cart.
—Get in. We’re losing light.
The path to the Summit of the Deceased was grueling: dark pines, ravines, loose stones. The air grew colder with every turn. Julián barely spoke. Emilia, wrapped in her shawl, glanced at his profile—hardened by grief and silence.
—In his letter he said he had three children—she ventured after a while.
—Matías is twelve. Jacinta, eight. The little one, Tomás, four.
—I will do my best to…
Julián cut her off.
—Don’t try to be their mother. They already had one.
The words landed like a stone.
When they arrived, the house appeared among the pines like a log fortress. The three children waited in the doorway. Matías, thin and sullen, held a carving knife. Jacinta, hidden behind a barrel, tangled hair and dirty face. Tomás sat on the ground, playing with a sun-bleached skull.
They didn’t look like children. They looked like creatures of the mountain.
—Get inside and wash up —Julián commanded.
The children disappeared without a word.
Inside, the house smelled of damp wood, old grease, and neglect. Dirty pots, muddy boots, wrinkled blankets, and a dusty loom with a half-finished shawl—Emilia knew whose it was.
“She’ll sleep behind that curtain,” said Julián, setting her suitcase on a narrow bed. “I’ll sleep upstairs. The children, downstairs. The flour’s almost gone. Make do.”
He left, leaving her alone with three hostile stares.
Emilia removed her hat, inhaled deeply, and looked at Matías.
-Hello.
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