“What’s your name?” Mateo asked.
“Pablo,” the boy replied,
shrinking back slightly when he noticed Daniela.
“And you?”
“Matthew. Look… we almost have the same name.”
Daniela felt a sharp blow to her stomach.
She forced herself to breathe.
“Excuse me, Pablo…” she said carefully,
as if walking on thin ice.
“Where are your parents?”
Pablo looked down
and pointed to a nearby bench.
There,
a thin woman, about fifty years old,
slept hugging an old bag.
His clothes were dirty
and his face was tired,
as if life had weighed more heavily on him than it should have.
“Aunt Consuelo takes care of me,” Pablo murmured.
“But sometimes she gets sick.”
Daniela pursed her lips.
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