“I learned it many years ago,” he finally replied.
Nothing else.
He refused to explain. Not there. Not with the smell of childbirth still clinging to the walls. Not with that newborn’s cry pounding in his ears.
However, history had already begun to move on its own.
An older doctor who had just entered the unit frowned when he saw her. His name was Álvaro Ibáñez; he had been in neonatology for over three decades and had the kind of memory that doesn’t remember names before it remembers hands.
He looked at her once. Then again.
“I know her,” he murmured.
Carmen froze.
—No, doctor…
—Yes. Of course. Those hands don’t belong to someone who just cleans hallways.
The silence that followed was different from before. It was no longer a silence of death. It was a silence of revelation.
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