Aurelio knew that heart.

He had the other half of it locked in a safe in his house, where it had sat for fifteen years.

It had belonged to Gael.

Father and son had each worn half, in the years before the estrangement, before the pride, before the grave.

Araceli must have kept Gael’s half for their son.

Santiago’s eyes fluttered open, and found the face of the stranger holding him, and something in the boy — some memory older than memory — reached toward it.

“Grandpa?” he whispered.