The phone rang at 12:30 a.m. Clara had just fallen asleep beside her husband, whose calm breathing echoed in the room. The sudden ring startled her. Her heart raced; she didn’t expect any good news at this hour.
— Andrés, — she whispered softly, nudging him. — Andrés, wake up. It’s the phone. He jumped up and grabbed the receiver. Clara anxiously watched his face, growing more pale by the second.
— How…? When? — he asked in a low voice. — Yes… I understand. I’ll be there right away.
Andrés hung up the phone slowly, his hands shaking.
— What happened? — Clara murmured, fear settling in.
— Pedro and Natalia… — he swallowed. — An accident. Both of them. They died on the spot.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Clara stared at her husband, unable to believe the words.
Just a few days ago, they had all been together in the kitchen, sipping tea, while Natalia shared a new cake recipe, and Pedro, Andrés’ best friend from college, told fishing stories.
— And Ana? — Clara suddenly remembered. — Oh my God, what happened to Ana?
— She was at home, — Andrés was quickly fastening his pants. — I need to go, Clara. There’s identification to do… and everything else.
— I’ll go with you.
— No! — he turned abruptly. — Alba will be alone. There’s no point in scaring her in the middle of the night.
Clara nodded. Her husband was right: there was no need to involve their twelve-year-old daughter in such a tragedy, at least for now.
She couldn’t sleep all night, pacing around the apartment, her eyes constantly darting to the clock. She entered Alba’s room—she was sleeping peacefully, her hand under her cheek, red hair spread across the pillow. So calm, so vulnerable.
Andrés returned at dawn, exhausted, his eyes bloodshot.
— It’s confirmed, — he said in a tired voice, collapsing into a chair. — A head-on collision… with a truck. They didn’t stand a chance.
— And what about Ana? — Clara asked softly, offering him a strong cup of coffee.
— I don’t know. She has her grandmother in a village. Old, barely able to walk.
They sat in silence for a moment. Clara gazed out the window at the cold, gray morning. Ana, Andrés’ goddaughter, was the same age as their daughter, Alba. A quiet, withdrawn girl, always a little on the outside.
— You know, — Andrés began slowly, — I was thinking… What if we take her in?
Clara turned sharply:
— Are you serious?
— Why not? There’s space, a free room. I’m her godfather. We can’t let her go to an orphanage.
— Andrés, but that… is a huge decision. We need to think it over, discuss it with Alba.
— What’s there to think about? — he slammed his fist on the table. — She’s a girl who’s lost both her parents! My goddaughter! I couldn’t live with myself if we turned our back on her.
Clara bit her lip. Of course, he was right. But everything was happening so fast.
— Mom, Dad, what’s going on? — Alba’s sleepy voice broke through their thoughts. — Why are you up so early?
They exchanged a glance. The moment of truth had come sooner than they expected.
— Sweetheart, — Clara began, — sit down. We have… very bad news to tell you.
Alba listened in silence, her eyes growing wider. When her father mentioned that Ana would live with them, she shot up suddenly:
— No! — she screamed. — I don’t want her here! She should go live with her grandmother!
— Alba! — Andrés scolded her. — How could you be so cruel?
— And what do I care? — her eyes flashed defiantly. — These aren’t my problems! I don’t want to share the house with her! And I don’t want you to either!
She ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door. Clara looked at her husband helplessly:
— Maybe we shouldn’t rush this?
— No, — he responded firmly. — The decision is made. Ana will live with us. Alba will get used to it.
A week later, Ana moved in. Silent, pale, with a vacant look in her eyes. She barely spoke, only nodding in response to questions.
Clara did her best to care for her, cooking her favorite meals, buying her new bedding with butterfly patterns.
Alba ostentatiously ignored Ana. She locked herself in her room and, when she saw Ana in the hallway, turned away to avoid crossing paths with her.
— Stop acting like this! — her father scolded. — Show some decency!
— What’s wrong with me? — Alba retorted. — I just don’t see her. I have the right! It’s my house!
The tension in the house grew with each passing day. Clara tried to mediate between the girls, smoothing over the rough edges. But the more she tried, the worse things got.
Then, the earrings went missing. Her favorite pair, gold with small diamonds. A gift Andrés had given Clara for their tenth wedding anniversary.
— It was her! — Alba exclaimed when Clara discovered they were gone. — I saw her entering your bedroom when you weren’t there.
— That’s not true! — Ana spoke for the first time. — I didn’t take anything! I’m not a thief!
She burst into tears and ran to her room. Andrés looked at his daughter seriously:
— Did you do this on purpose? Do you want to destroy her?
— But I’m telling the truth! — Alba protested. — She’s faking. Faking being sad, while…
— Enough! — Clara intervened. — Let’s stop arguing. The earrings will turn up. She might have left them somewhere and forgotten.
But three days later, a ring disappeared. The only memento from Clara’s mother.
— What, that disappeared by chance too? — Alba asked sarcastically. — Or are we going to keep pretending nothing’s happening?
She stood in the center of the living room, hands on her hips, like a little fury. And at the door stood Ana, pale, biting her lip, blinking rapidly as if trying to hold back tears.
Clara looked between the two girls. And for the first time in all these days, she felt like she was starting to understand something.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Clara twisted a small bottle of green liquid between her fingers. The solution came to her by accident, while treating a cut on Ana’s paper, when an idea crossed her mind. Green. Like deception, and as visible as the truth. She waited until everyone had fallen asleep and took out her jewelry box. She marked each ring, each earring with a tiny drop.
— What am I doing? — she whispered in the dark. — God, what have we come to…
The next morning, a pendant was missing. The table was engulfed in silence. Ana played with her spoon on the plate, and Alba stubbornly stared out the window. Andrés sipped his coffee with a grim expression.
— Girls, — Clara spoke calmly. — Show me your hands.
They looked at her, surprised.
— Why? — Alba frowned.
— Just show them.
Ana was the first to extend her hands, clean, with no trace of the mark. But Alba hesitated.
— I won’t show them! — she tried to get up from the table.
— Sit down! — her father’s voice boomed. — Show your hands to your mother, now!
With an irritated expression, Alba lifted her hands. Tiny green spots appeared on her fingertips.
An oppressive silence filled the kitchen. The ticking of the clocks on the wall, the murmur of water in the pipes, and Andrés’ heavy breathing were the only sounds.
— You… — he began, trembling with rage.