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The neighbors began to notice the obvious.
Doña Candelaria, whose tongue was quicker than pity, arrived one day with cornbread and a suspicious smile.
—So the widower remained — he observed, looking at Tomás from the kitchen.
“She stayed at work,” Elena answered too quickly.
—Of course. And it’s also very beautiful, in case no one has already mentioned it.
A blush immediately rose to her neck.
—Don’t talk nonsense, godmother.
The old woman burst out laughing.
—My daughter, I’ve seen so many love stories begin. Almost all of them begin with the statement that it’s nothing.
Elena spent that night sleepless, staring at the ceiling.
She knew what she felt, but she was afraid to name it. She was afraid of ruining the peace they’d built. She was afraid that Tomás didn’t feel the same. She was afraid of being alone again, but now with something more to lose.
Even Tomás couldn’t sleep.
From his small room, with Mateo and Gael breathing softly beside him, he thought of Elena combing her hair into a simple bun, of her strong hands, of the way she spoke to the animals and children: firmly and tenderly. He had sworn he wouldn’t feel so soon after burying his wife, but the heart doesn’t ask permission.
Autumn arrived with cool mornings and a golden light on the wheat fields.
One evening, while they were washing the dishes together and the twins were finally asleep, Elena dared to ask:
—Have you thought about how long you intend to stay here?
Tomás stopped drying the vase.
—Do you want me to go?
“No.” He looked up immediately. “That’s not the point. I just… don’t want you to feel obligated.”
Tomás took a step towards her.
—I don’t want to leave, Elena. Unless you ask me to.
The silence between the two became thick, vibrant.
“Elena,” he said, his voice lowering. “When I came here, I was already dead inside. I only continued for my children. But you… you gave me back something I thought I’d lost.”
She felt like she was short of breath.
—Tomás, I…