Valeria tilted her head.
“Does consistency comfort you?”
“Sometimes strange things do,” he said. “Especially when they finally show up.”
She studied him, as if that answer had genuinely caught her interest.
Across the room, Marco noticed—without staring—a tall, well-dressed man holding a drink. His expression had shifted from confidence to quiet confusion. Marco didn’t need an introduction to know it was Jaime.
He chose not to look again.
“My mother mentioned you have a daughter,” Valeria said.
Marco felt his heart settle into place, as it always did at the mention of Lucía.
“Her name is Lucía. She’s six. She firmly believes clouds are made of cotton and that worms listen to music. So far, I haven’t found enough scientific evidence to prove her wrong.”
For the first time, something softened in Valeria’s expression. Not quite a smile—just a quiet warmth in her eyes.
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