The crying didn’t stop. Paloma knocked softly on the closed door.
The sobs quieted.
“I promise I won’t be mad,” she said, her voice tender.
Slowly, Paloma opened the door.
Inside, a little girl sat curled up on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest. Her brown hair was tangled, her cheeks streaked with tears.
“Hi there,” Paloma said softly. “What’s your name?”
The child sniffled. “Camila.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Paloma smiled. “I’m Paloma. Tell me, why are you crying?”
Camila rubbed her stomach and whispered, “It hurts.”
The girl nodded.
Paloma checked her watch—it was already past one in the afternoon. “You didn’t have breakfast either?”
Camila shook her head. “Verónica forgot again.”
Paloma’s heart tightened. “Well, that won’t do,” she said, standing up. “Come on, let’s find you something to eat.”
The little girl hesitated, then reached out her small hand. Paloma took it gently. In that simple gesture, a bond began—quiet, fragile, but real.
