“Duérmete, mi sol,” she continued.

The words floated through the study like dust in the afternoon light, and Arthur’s hands curled beneath the blanket. He was no longer in the study. He was in a bedroom painted pale yellow, rain tapping against the windows, his daughter refusing to sleep unless her mother sang that song twice.

He was standing in the doorway after a late meeting, loosening his tie, watching his wife brush curls from their child’s forehead.

Esther had laughed softly and whispered that she had his stubbornness, and Arthur had replied that she would conquer the world one day. The memory struck so hard it was almost physical, and when Maya reached the final line and stopped, the silence that returned was not the same as before.

This one had finally cracked open.

Maya lifted the tray and turned toward the door.