The rain fell with an almost cruel persistence that afternoon as Lucía stepped off the bus. She held her belly in one hand, already swelling with the early signs of life inside her, and a small, worn suitcase in the other. Each drop that hit her skin felt like a reminder of everything she had lost—the apartment she had called home, the life she thought she had planned, and the people who had abandoned her without explanation.
The air smelled of wet earth and old memories, memories that weren’t hers but felt familiar somehow, like echoes of a past she had never known. Lucía had traveled hundreds of kilometers, fleeing a life that had crumbled without warning. Her heart was a fragile mix of fear and hope, barely staying afloat amid uncertainty.
She was pregnant, alone, and homeless.
The only person she could turn to was her Aunt Carmen, a woman she barely remembered from family gatherings long ago. From stories whispered over the years, she knew Carmen was strong, a widow for many years, and the owner of an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a small town forgotten by time. Lucía didn’t know what kind of welcome awaited her—but she had no choice.
The dirt road leading to the farm was slick with mud, making each step a struggle. Her shoes sank, her back ached from carrying the suitcase, and the early contractions in her belly reminded her that time was pressing. Every step felt like wading through an ocean of doubt and exhaustion.
Finally, she glimpsed the house. Her heart leapt, though not in relief. The house was older than she had imagined, weathered by decades of storms. Its walls were worn, paint peeling in long strips, and the roof sagged slightly as though burdened by years of neglect. Wide, unkempt fields stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with skeletal trees and overgrown bushes. The wind carried the scent of wet grass and soil.
A dim light flickered in one of the upstairs windows. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest, and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
Seconds passed like an eternity. Then the door creaked open, revealing Carmen. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her piercing eyes scanned Lucía from head to toe, lingering briefly on the small curve of her belly. Her face was etched with the years, her expression unreadable, as though time had carved her into stone.
“Lucía?” she asked, voice calm, as if expecting her arrival.
Lucía nodded, her throat tight, words caught somewhere between fear and exhaustion.
—I have nowhere else to go… she wanted to say, but her lips trembled.
Carmen studied her silently, her gaze sharp, assessing every inch of Lucía as if she were a puzzle to solve. No questions, no overt emotion—just observation. Then, after a long pause, she stepped aside and said:
—Happens.
The house was cold, in every sense of the word. The temperature was low, but so was the atmosphere: everything seemed frozen in time. Antique furniture gathered dust, photographs stared blankly from the walls, and silence filled the corners like a living thing. Lucía stepped in cautiously, dragging her suitcase over the uneven floorboards, her heart pounding with unease.
That night, she slept in a small, dimly lit room on a hard bed covered by a rough blanket. Her back ached, her muscles protested from the journey and the day’s walk, and yet the small reprieve of a roof over her head felt like a luxury. She thought the worst might be behind her. She was wrong.
The next morning, Carmen made one thing very clear as she poured a cup of bitter coffee:
—Nobody lives here for free. If you stay, you work.
Lucía swallowed her fear and exhaustion, nodding quietly. —I’ll do what I can.
Carmen’s eyes softened slightly, though she didn’t smile. —Then it starts today.
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