You try not to take it personally, but you do, because you’re human and because the loneliness in this house has sharp edges. You tell yourself he’s eight, that grief makes children mean, that fear makes them cruel in tiny ways. You tell yourself you can outlast it, because outlasting is something you learned at Prudencio’s house the same way you learned to split wood. Still, when Matías turns away, you feel the sting like a slap you can’t return.

That night, Cayetano finally speaks more than three words to you.

You’re washing cloths in a basin near the stove, hands red and cracked, when he appears in the doorway like a shadow pulled into shape. He holds a folded blanket, the thick wool kind, and he sets it on the chair without meeting your eyes. The silence stretches until it becomes loud, and you almost laugh from how ridiculous it is that two adults can share a house and speak like strangers passing on a road.

“You did good,” he says, the words low and rough, like they were dragged up from someplace he doesn’t like to visit.

Your throat tightens, and you hate that it does, because you don’t want his approval to matter. But it does, because you didn’t come here with anything except the shawl from your mother and a body everyone discussed like livestock. You nod, not trusting your voice, and he lingers just long enough for you to feel the heat of another person nearby. Then he leaves again, as if kindness is a thing that burns his hands.

You wake before dawn to a sound you haven’t heard in days: Matías crying.

It’s not loud sobbing, not the kind that asks for comfort. It’s a tight, furious sound, like someone trying to swallow pain so it won’t be used against them. You hesitate outside his door, one hand hovering, because you don’t know the rules of his grief. In your old life, if you cried, Prudencio would have given you something worse than a scolding, so you learned not to let anyone hear.

You knock softly anyway.

No answer comes, but the crying stops, and that silence feels like a warning. You whisper his name once, then twice, and the only response is the creak of the house settling in the cold. You go back to the kitchen, heart beating too hard, and you realize this isn’t only about winning children over. This is about learning how to be in a family where nobody knows how to ask for help.

Later, while you’re kneading dough, Elías stands beside you like a small, solemn witness. He doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t make demands, just watches your hands like he’s memorizing what safe looks like. His eyes flick to the window, then to the door, then back to you, and you understand he’s the kind of child who counts exits because he’s learned that people leave.

“Do you go away?” he asks suddenly.

The question hits you in the ribs. You keep kneading so your hands have something to do. “Not today,” you say, careful.

“Not ever?” he presses, voice thin as thread.

You want to promise him forever, but forever is a word you don’t fully trust yet. So you choose a promise you can keep. “I’m here,” you say, and you mean it with your whole tired body.

The first time you step into town with Cayetano, the world reminds you what you are to other people.

He harnesses the horses and says you need medicine for Rosita and flour for the pantry, and his tone makes it sound like a simple errand. But the moment the wagon rolls into the little plaza, eyes stick to you like burrs. Women pause mid-conversation. Men stare too long and then look away too late. Someone whispers, and you don’t even need to hear the words to know they include “widower” and “girl” and other things said with hungry judgment.

You sit straight, chin lifted, because pride is sometimes the only coat you own. Cayetano keeps his gaze forward, jaw tight, hands steady on the reins. He doesn’t defend you with speeches, doesn’t glare at them, but the air around him feels like a closed door. People sense it, and they don’t push too openly, but you can feel the gossip already building its nest.

In the apothecary, the pharmacist, a thin man with nervous eyes, hands Cayetano a small packet of herbs and a vial of something bitter. His gaze flicks to you and then away, as if looking at you too long would make him guilty. “It’s good the little one survived,” he says, too loudly, like a public announcement. “Some winters take what they want.”

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