“Ten,” he answers immediately. “I’m Pedro. She’s Ana Clara. She’s seven.”
Ana Clara peeks out from behind him, eyes too big for her face, cheeks pale, hair tied with a fraying ribbon.
“And your sister?” you ask.
“Mariana,” Pedro says. “Eighteen. She’s sick.”
He hesitates, then adds, “We didn’t want to leave her alone, but… she told us to try.”
The word try lands like a bruise.
You can hear the desperation tucked inside it, like a note folded into a pocket.
You glance back at your mansion, at the silent windows, at the kitchen full of food you barely touch, and you feel a sudden, ugly clarity.
You turn to Nando. “Open the gate,” you say.
Nando’s eyebrows jump. “Sir—”
“Open,” you repeat, and now your voice is steel again.
The gate clicks and swings inward, slow and heavy, like your life making room for the first time in years.
Pedro steps in carefully, as if the gravel might explode.
Ana Clara follows, gripping his shirt.
They stop a few steps from you, like they don’t trust themselves to get closer.
You notice the way they keep looking past you, scanning for exits, expecting to be chased at any moment.
“You’re going to clean the garden,” you say.
“And you’re going to do it under supervision. You don’t go near the house. You don’t touch anything except weeds and tools.”
Pedro nods so fast it’s almost painful. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
