She knelt beside the bed, lowered her head, and whispered in Spanish. Then she placed the rose on the pillow, kissed her fingertips, and crossed herself.
Victor leaned closer, replaying the moment, adjusting the sound.
Finally, he caught the words:
“Descanse, señora. Él todavía la ama… solo no sabe cómo decirlo.” (“Rest, ma’am. He still loves you—he just doesn’t know how to say it.”)
Victor leaned back, breathless. For the first time in years, his heart felt unfamiliar inside his chest.
He watched her extinguish the candle and close the door with care, as if guarding something fragile.
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He silenced his alarm, skipped his run, and sat at the table staring at food he never touched.
Something had shifted—quietly, permanently.
The next morning, he found Isabel in the kitchen, humming as she washed dishes.
He stood watching longer than intended. No performance. No awareness of being seen. Just calm presence.
When she noticed him, she froze.
“M–Mr. Moreno… good morning,” she said nervously.
“There’s no need for that,” he replied. “Just… Victor.”
She blinked. He had never spoken to her that way.
After a pause, he asked, “The upstairs room. My wife’s. Did you go in there?”
Her face drained of color.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Thank you.”
From then on, things changed.
Victor began noticing what he’d ignored—fresh flowers along the corridor, curtains drawn back for morning light, quiet music drifting from the staff wing.
Isabel, without ceremony, was returning warmth to the estate.
Every Friday, a new rose appeared in his wife’s room. Every Sunday, a small note followed—a prayer, a memory, a few careful words.
One morning, Victor entered the room himself. The weight was gone.
He stood there, eyes closed, breathing something that felt like absolution.
Weeks later, he called Isabel into his office.
She entered anxiously. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”
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