Chapter 2 - The Weight of Silence
The hallway swallowed them up, plunging them into a cooler, quieter corridor lined with motivational posters and trophy cases. But the silence between Lucía and her twin sons felt heavier than any lecture hall.
Mateo walked a few paces behind, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded hoodie. He looked up at his mother, his dark eyes—the exact replica of Álvaro's—swimming with a terrifying mix of awe and devastation.
"Was that man him?" Mateo asked, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels.
Lucía stopped walking. She knelt, grabbing both her sons by their shoulders, forcing them to look her in the eyes. The boys were nearly as tall as her now, smelling of laundry detergent and cheap cologne, yet at that moment, they looked like the terrified toddlers she had cradled in the dark.
"Yes," Lucía said softly, her voice trembling.
"Is that our father?" Marcos asked. His jaw was set like stone, refusing to let a single tear escape.
"Yes," Lucía whispered.
The twins continued walking down the corridor toward the testing halls. There were no dramatic tears, no explosive outbursts, no childish reproaches. That was what pierced Lucía’s heart like a rusted blade: they had lived through thirteen years of absence by learning to expect nothing from the world. They had hardened their hearts against ghosts long before they ever knew what a ghost looked like.
"He looked at us like we were strangers," Mateo muttered, staring straight ahead. "Or worse... like we were dirt."
"You are gold," Lucía said fiercely, grabbing their hands. "Never forget who raised you. Never let a man who walked away make you feel small."
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They entered the testing zone, a massive amphitheater packed with rows of sleek digital terminals and scratch paper. Lucía retreated to the very last row of the viewing gallery, pulling a styrofoam cup of lukewarm, bitter coffee from her bag. Across the hall, through the glass partition, she saw Álvaro chatting animatedly with the board members of the regional academic federation, laughing and gesturing like a founding father of genius.
Hugo sat at a front-row terminal, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted his noise-canceling headphones. Lucía felt no malice toward the boy. Hugo was a victim of his father's gilded cage just as much as her sons were victims of his abandonment. The sins of the father belonged to the father alone.
