Her heart pounded, erasing the weariness of years of absence. Her feet carried her alone across the yard. She noticed that the porch was new, with carved railings, that the shed had been repaired, that the fence was painted. A wave of pride tightened her throat: “Bravo, Adrian, bravo, my son. You’re keeping the house as I taught you.” She could already imagine the hug, the touch of his cheek, the new life after all the bad times.

The door resisted for a moment, swollen with damp. Isabel pushed it open with effort and took a step into the hallway. Then he stopped abruptly: before her stood an unknown man. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a loose sweater, holding a towel. He looked at her in surprise, assessing her aging face, the old-fashioned scarf, and the rough prison coat.

“Who are you looking for, Grandma?” he asked in a calm voice, but icy as a distance.

Isabel’s throat closed. She could barely manage to whisper:

“Adrián… Where’s Adrián?”

The man wrinkled his brow, noticing the worn clothes peeking out from under the coat. A flash of irony appeared in his eyes.