I always thought betrayal would be loud.
Screaming. Doors slamming. A last terrible fight that left the whole house shaking.
I never imagined it would come in the careful voice of the boy I once carried half-asleep from the sofa to his bed.
But that was how it came.
It was a wet Thursday in Morelia, the kind of evening when the clouds sit low over the red tiles and the whole street smells like rain and stone. Everything felt hushed. Suspended.
Then I heard it.
The lock.
One hard, final click from the basement door.
