She nods, though not because she believes you.

That evening, Tomás returns home with a greasy paper bag of pastries from the bakery near the bus stop. He kisses your mother’s forehead, calls out to Esteban, and smiles at Lucía with the distracted affection of a tired husband who assumes the woman he married is safe because she is inside family walls. Watching him, a heavy dread settles in you.

Tomás has always been the youngest spirit in the room, even now at twenty-eight. The little brother who broke his wrist at twelve trying to jump a drainage ditch on a bicycle. The teenager who cried openly when your father died, then apologized to everyone for making things harder. The man who still reaches for hope before suspicion. If something dangerous is living under his roof, he will be the last to accept it.

Dinner passes in a haze of ordinary conversation.

The soup is too salty. The water heater still acts up. Your mother’s doctor says she needs to walk more. Esteban talks about a client in Cholula who keeps changing his mind about tile. Tomás asks if you can help him compare interest rates for a small loan. Lucía barely speaks. She serves everyone else first, eats almost nothing, and keeps her eyes lowered as if the table itself might accuse her.

When bedtime comes, you feel your pulse thudding in your throat.

Lucía appears at your bedroom door, as always, holding her folded blanket and pillow. Esteban is brushing his teeth in the bathroom. You sit on the edge of the bed pretending to untangle a necklace. She looks at you once, and that single glance carries a question.

Still tonight?

You nod.

She steps inside and places her pillow in the middle.

By the time the house goes quiet, every nerve in you is listening.

At 1:13 a.m., the sound comes again.

Click.

This time, you are waiting for it.

A thin strip of light appears first along the bottom of the door, then slowly rises, deliberate and narrow, crawling up the opposite wall. Lucía doesn’t have to warn you—you freeze immediately. Esteban lies beyond her, turned away from both of you. His breathing sounds steady, but now that you’re fully alert, it feels too steady. Rehearsed.

The light pauses near the headboard.

Then comes the soft knock.

Tac.

Lucía shifts upward slightly, placing her head directly into its path. After two beats, the light vanishes.

A floorboard in the hallway lets out a faint, complaining creak. Then comes withdrawal—slow, controlled, intentional.

You wait.

Five minutes later, Lucía sits up. “Now,” she whispers.

You glance at Esteban.

Lucía follows your gaze. “He won’t move for at least ten minutes.”

The certainty in her tone makes your stomach twist.

You get out of bed without a word. The tiles feel cold beneath your feet. Lucía gathers her blanket around her shoulders, and the two of you step into the hallway like fugitives moving through your own home.

On the roof, the night air hits sharp and cool.

Puebla stretches around you in fragments of yellow light and shadowed terraces, satellite dishes and water tanks, distant dogs barking thinly through the wind. Somewhere far off, a motorcycle hums down a street before fading away. The sky is clear, scattered with hard, bright stars above the city’s dim glow.

Lucía places her pillow on an overturned paint bucket and sits.

You stay standing. “Talk.”

She nods, as if she expected no gentleness from you.