Lucía studied her face.
“You are allowed to be frightened.”
“I know.”
“Mother Caridad will find answers.”
Esperanza’s smile weakened.
“She has been trying for years.”
“That does not mean she has failed.”
Esperanza looked toward the kitchen door.
Through it, she could see part of the cloister garden. A narrow path curved between rosemary bushes and white roses. Beyond the garden stood the old infirmary wing, closed most days except when Doctor Paloma visited.
A strange uneasiness passed through her.
She remembered waking there once.
Or believed she remembered it.
There had been a lamp above her. A cold cloth on her forehead. Someone saying, “You are safe.”
But when had that happened?
During her first pregnancy?
Her second?
Before either of them?
The memory dissolved whenever she tried to hold it.
“Esperanza?” Lucía asked.
She blinked.
“Yes?”
“You went somewhere far away.”
“I was only thinking.”
“About what?”
“I do not know.”
Lucía leaned closer.
“That is a troubling answer.”
Esperanza looked down at Miguel. The child’s eyes had opened, dark and trusting.
“There are pieces missing,” she said quietly.
“Pieces of what?”
“My memory.”
Lucía’s hand stopped beside the bread plate.
“What do you mean?”
Esperanza searched for words.
“There are mornings when I wake and feel as though I have forgotten a dream. Not an ordinary dream. Something important. I can almost see a room, or hear a voice, but then it vanishes.”
“Has this happened recently?”
“It has happened for years.”
“Why have you never told anyone?”
Esperanza gave a small, embarrassed shrug.
“I thought it was exhaustion. Then Tomás was born. Then Miguel. There was always something more urgent.”
Lucía’s expression softened, but concern remained in her eyes.
“You should tell Mother Caridad.”
“She already doubts me.”
“She does not doubt you.”
Esperanza looked toward the doorway again.
“She doubts the story I am able to give her.”
