Weeks passed. The mountain air was sharp and pure; the house grew filled with the scent of pine and smoke. Camila began to open her eyes longer each day. Her tiny fingers could now grasp Claudia’s hand, and she even managed a faint smile when Rodrigo read her stories by the fire.
But the cure was not without a price.
One evening, as the doctor prepared another tonic, he looked grim.
“She is getting stronger,” he said quietly, “but her blood still fights itself. I can help her recover completely — but the process will require more than herbs.”
“What do you need?” Rodrigo asked immediately. “Money? Equipment?”
The doctor shook his head. “I need part of you.”
Rodrigo frowned. “What are you saying?”
“A transfusion,” the doctor explained, “but not a simple one. Her body rejects normal blood. It needs a rare genetic match — and it seems she inherited your exact markers. But the process will take hours. It will be painful, and dangerous for both of you.”
Rodrigo hesitated only a moment. “Do it.”
Claudia gasped. “Sir, you can’t! You’ve barely eaten or slept—”
“Do it!” he repeated, louder this time. “If my blood can save her, she’ll have it all.”
That night, the storm outside rattled the shutters. Inside, by the light of oil lamps, the transfusion began.
Rodrigo lay beside his daughter, connected by thin tubes that shimmered in the dim glow. Claudia held Camila’s hand, whispering prayers under her breath.
Hours passed. Rodrigo’s face turned pale; sweat beaded on his forehead. The doctor worked in silence, focused, his old hands steady as stone.
When it was done, Rodrigo could barely lift his head. “Is she…?” he asked weakly.
The doctor nodded. “She will live.”
Claudia burst into tears. She pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking.
Rodrigo smiled faintly before fainting against the pillow.
IV. Awakening
When he awoke the next day, sunlight was pouring through the window. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming — because there, at the edge of the bed, Camila was sitting up, eating porridge from a small bowl.
She turned and saw him.
“Papa,” she said softly.
Her voice — that single word — shattered him.
Rodrigo reached for her, tears streaming down his face. “Mi amor…”
She smiled, small and shy, her cheeks flushed with life. “Papa, the doctor said you were brave.”
Claudia stood in the doorway, her hands folded. The look on her face was one of quiet triumph — and exhaustion.
Dr. Asiún entered soon after, carrying a steaming cup of broth.
“She’ll recover fully,” he said. “But she must rest. Her heart needs peace — and love.”
He turned to Rodrigo. “So do you.”
Rodrigo nodded silently. “I understand.”
V. The Return
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