Hands brushed over mortars. Words grew easier. Stories arrived in fragments. Tlacael spoke of a wife he had lost years before, a grief that had taught him how to endure. Jimena spoke of growing up in rooms crowded with opinion and thin on affection, the way a girl learns to take up less and less space until she fears she might vanish.
Word spread across the mesas: a healer lived in the adobe house. Mothers came carrying feverish children. A ranch hand arrived with a gash that refused to close. A grandmother limped up the path with aching joints. Some came wary, uncertain of this woman with a soft voice and a firm hand; most left relieved, a little astonished, telling friends what they had seen.
The desert changed Jimena. Not into someone else, but into more of herself. Her hands grew capable. Her stride lengthened. The sun kissed her skin and the work reshaped her body, but the truest transformation was behind her eyes. She slept without dread. She woke to purpose. There were days she caught herself laughing aloud, the sound so new she turned to find the source.
In the evenings, they shared tea beneath a sky jeweled with stars. They spoke of trade routes and trust, of how herbs could be exchanged for grain, tools, and peace. They spoke carefully, then not so carefully, about how two peoples might meet each other with dignity rather than demand.
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