“Who was outside our room last night?”
Her hand froze for half a second.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You took my hand,” I whispered. “You blocked the light on purpose.”
Her face went pale.
“Please,” she said, glancing toward the ceiling. “Not here.”
That answer frightened me more than a denial.
That night, after everyone slept, we met on the roof.
Puebla stretched around us in quiet lights and cold air. Lucía sat on an overturned bucket, clutching her blanket.
“It started before we moved here,” she said softly. “At first, I thought I was imagining it. Esteban was always polite, always helpful. Then he began standing too close. Saying things he could pretend were innocent.”
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