The rain seems louder now.
“Who changed it?”
She lifts her face toward the hospital doors. “The people who took her.”
Your irritation comes back fast, sharp, almost grateful for the chance to wear something familiar.
“Señora,” you say, “if you’re telling me your daughter was kidnapped, you should have gone to the police, not spent decades sweeping outside a hospital.”
She lets you finish.
That, more than anything, unsettles you.
Most people react to your tone. Residents. Patients’ families. Interns. Even administrators. They hurry, defend, explain, or retreat. But this woman only sits there under your umbrella with rain misting across the pavement and looks at you with an ache so old it has worn itself smooth.
“I did go,” she says. “Many times.”
You say nothing.
