You don’t move at first.
Your brain refuses to accept what your eyes are reporting: your parents on the dirt floor, your mother’s hair turned thin and gray, your father’s hands cracked like old wood, and a little girl curled between them like the last warm coal in a dying fire.
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Pause
00:00
00:11
01:31
Mute
Then you hear the footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Familiar.
The shadow in the back room shifts, and a man steps into the dim light like he owns the air.
It’s not a stranger.
It’s Tomás, your cousin. The same cousin who used to slap your back at family parties and say, “Don’t forget us when you’re rich.” The same cousin you trusted to “help” your parents whenever a banking problem came up, to “handle” things in town when you were too far away to do it yourself.
He’s wearing your father’s old jacket like it belongs on his shoulders.
And the way he looks at you isn’t surprise.
It’s irritation… like you showed up early to a party you weren’t invited to.
“Well,” Tomás says, rubbing sleep from his eyes with lazy fingers. “Look who finally remembered his roots.”
Your father stiffens beside your mother.
