Chapter 2 Twelve weeks before

The letter appeared like an unwelcome memory slipping through the cracks in the soul, gently slipping under the door as Amelia prepared Tomás's snack.

She was distracted, spreading jam on toast and listening to her son's laughter in the hall. Outside, the sun filtered warm light through the curtains, bathing the kitchen in a deceptive calm. Steam from the tea rose in soft, almost hypnotic spirals. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary. Until her eyes fell upon the yellow envelope, worn, wrinkled at the corners, as if it had traveled too long or through too many hands.

She bent down carefully to pick it up, feeling a chill run down her spine. There was no sender, no stamp, no sign of origin. Just his name, written in black ink and an uneven handwriting that seemed more carved than written. Already at that moment, before even opening it, something in her chest tightened. An ancient instinct, deep and visceral, whispered to her that the piece of paper held more than just words.

When she tore the edge with trembling fingers, a single message fell out, like a sentence:

"You don't deserve your happy ending."

The paper slipped from her hands as if it had burned them. It fell to the floor with a dry whisper, and with it, something broke in the air. The butter knife hovered in her hand, but Amelia was no longer thinking about the toast. She could only hear her heart racing, drumming inside her chest as if it wanted to escape.

Around her, life went on. Tomás laughed, racing around with his toy car, oblivious to the storm that had just settled in the kitchen. In the living room, Isabelita's voice echoed through the telephone speaker, excitedly recounting some college anecdote. From another room, Luciano hummed along without realizing it; the radio played softly, like a friendly background to a familiar scene. But for Amelia, everything remained suspended, distant.

Anticipation

Gabriel was in his room, lying on the rug, holding a storybook. He was reading the story of a fox who wanted to fly. His eyes scanned the illustrations, but his mind was elsewhere. For weeks, something had told him things weren't right. The silences between his parents were longer. The smiles were more forced. And Mom, who used to hug him whenever he passed by, now seemed distracted. As if her mind was escaping through the windows.

A strange noise, almost like a rustle, made him look up. Then, the sound of paper falling. And then, Mom's tense silence. He got up quietly and looked out the door. He saw the envelope on the floor, next to Amelia's feet, and his mother's face, pale, her eyes fixed on nothing.

"Mom?" he whispered. "Are you okay?"

She looked up too quickly. She smiled. Or tried to. But the smile crumbled at the corners like a wet piece of paper.

"Yes, my love. Just... an old piece of paper. Nothing important."

But he knew she was lying. Gabriel had that strange sensitivity of children who have had to grow up a little faster. And although he couldn't read the letter, he could read the fear in her eyes.

Sadness

That night, when the children were asleep and the house breathed quietly, Amelia sat in front of her bedroom window. Outside, the moon rose round, watchful, shedding its light on the garden. The almond tree they had planted when they knew they were expecting Luna swayed in the wind, as if listening to thoughts.

Amelia hugged her knees, barefoot, her cotton robe wrapped around her body like a fragile shield. She had the letter folded in her lap. It had been hard to look at it again. It was just a line of text, but the unease it left was profound, as if someone had dug into her past with the tip of a knife.

She remembered her father and his departure. The abandonment disguised as a necessary absence. She remembered Martina and the secrets the woman had taken to the grave. She remembered her own silences, those she had hidden so well that sometimes she forgot they still hurt. And then she thought of Luna, of the unborn baby, and of that promise of happiness she felt escaping like water through her fingers.

A tear ran down her cheek. Then another. And then many more.

Flashback: A Whisper from the Past

At university, Isabelita walked briskly through the halls of the medical school. Her head was full of formulas, clinical cases, and the constant reminder that her scholarship depended on her not failing. That morning, a professor had stopped her as she was leaving class, looking at her with an expression that was a mixture of compassion and warning.

"Cárdenas?" "-he had asked in an ambiguous tone-"I hope you understand that your last name carries a history... and that there are those who haven't forgotten."

The young woman didn't understand exactly what he meant, but those words followed her all day like a shadow. She was walking toward the library when she heard a murmur. Someone approached from behind her, too close. And then, a whisper made her skin crawl:

"We know who you are."

She turned, but no one was there. Only students passing by, distant laughter, and the feeling of being watched. She said nothing. Not to Amelia. Not to Luciano. She didn't want to worry them. But something told her that the layers of the past were beginning to peel back. And that what lay beneath wasn't pretty.

Day to Day Under the Shadow

Amelia showed Luciano the letter that same night. He read it with a clenched jaw, then angrily crumpled it and threw it in the trash. He hugged her tightly, too tightly. He promised to protect her. He promised that nothing and no one would hurt them.

"We're together," he said. "No matter what."

But Amelia wasn't sure. Not entirely.

Gabriel listened from the hallway. He didn't understand everything, but he understood enough. From that night on, he began to observe more. His mother. His father. Isabelita. The silences. He felt like there was a parallel world in his family, one full of secrets of which he could only see shadows.

Tomás, however, remained oblivious. He played with blocks, learned new words, danced without music. He was purity itself, absolute innocence. And for that very reason, Amelia clung to him like an anchor.

The Night Before the Storm

That same night, when the house was asleep again, Amelia opened her diary. That blue-covered notebook where she had been writing for years. She opened it to a blank page and began to write. She wasn't looking for answers; she just wanted to empty out the fear.

"A letter arrived today. Unsigned. Or sealed. Just a threat that smells of the past. Of that part of me I thought was buried."

The pen scraped the paper as the words flowed like a release.

"Luciano says we're safe. But I know that fear doesn't always need a door to enter. Sometimes a memory is enough."

When she closed the notebook, she felt slightly lighter. She got up to turn off the light, but before doing so, she looked once more at the almond tree from the window. The wind stirred it gently. It seemed to be saying something.

And then, in a low voice, she asked herself:

"What must be let go of in order to fly?"

There was no answer.

But the question was already the beginning.