It felt like fear that had learned to obey.
That morning, the class activity was supposed to be innocent.
Miguel asked the children to draw their families, a warm exercise before reading time.
The room filled with color, noise, and small arguments about who had taken the blue crayon.The question was so impossible that Professor Miguel felt ashamed the moment it escaped his mouth.
She was only seven years old, sitting in the corner of the classroom with her pink backpack crushed against her chest.
Her small hands rested over her swollen stomach, not protectively, but desperately, as if she wanted to hide from her own body.
The classroom at Benito Juárez Elementary still smelled of chalk, glue, crayons, and orange peels from the children’s morning snack.
Outside, boys were kicking a soccer ball against the courtyard wall, shouting with the careless happiness that childhood should always have.
Inside, Miguel could hear only Sofía’s breathing.
For weeks, he had watched the brightest child in his class slowly disappear.
