A woman with bright eyes and windblown hair smiled at the camera. Beside her stood a younger, softer Arthur, laughing at something outside the frame. Between them was a little girl with curls and a missing front tooth, holding a wooden rabbit.

Maya’s throat tightened, but she turned the frame face down again, exactly as she’d found it.

Then she did the thing no one in that house had done for three years. She began to sing. Not loudly, not dramatically—just under her breath while collecting the tray.

A lullaby, old and simple. The kind of song women sing in kitchens, on buses, beside sickbeds, and beside cradles.

“Duérmete, mi niña,” she hummed softly.

Arthur stopped breathing for a moment, listening intently.