Sofia would be twenty-three.
The foreman huffed impatiently.
“Mr. Mendoza, this is ridiculous—”
“Enough!” I shouted. “You’re dismissed. Effective immediately. Leave.”
Color drained from his face. He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He walked away muttering under his breath.
When we were alone—at least as alone as one can be with dozens of workers watching—I lowered myself to Lucia’s level.
She flinched.
“I won’t hurt you,” I said gently. “I just need you to listen. Twenty years ago, my daughter disappeared. Her name was Sofia. She was three years old. She had your eyes. And she had three moles on her neck—right here.”
I gestured to the spot.
Lucia instinctively reached for her neck.
“Lots of people have moles,” she whispered.
“Not like hers,” I said. “They formed a perfect triangle. My wife used to call them Orion’s Belt.”
Her breath caught.
“My grandmother…” she murmured. “She always says my freckles are special. A sign from heaven.”
My chest felt like it was splitting open.
“May I see them?”
She hesitated. Then slowly, she loosened her vest and pulled down the collar of her shirt.
There they were.
Three dark dots.
Perfectly aligned.
The stars of Orion.
My legs gave out. I collapsed into the mud, sobbing in a way I hadn’t since my wife’s burial.
“It’s you,” I cried. “You’re my little girl. You’re Sofia.”
Lucia cried too—but hers were tears of confusion.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I’m not your daughter. My grandmother raised me.”
“What is her name?”
“Mercedes Fuentes.”
The name meant nothing to me—but that proved nothing.
People who take children rarely keep their real names.
“I need to meet her,” I said. “Please. I have to talk to her.”
Lucia wiped her face.
“She’s very ill. She barely leaves her bed.”
“Then I’ll come to her,” I said. “Please. Just let me.”
She looked at me—those same green eyes, my wife’s eyes, Sofia’s eyes.
And nodded.
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