As he approached his house, the cries of a child pierced through the quiet afternoon, coming from the direction of the pigsty. His pace quickened, heart pounding in his chest, the military instinct kicking in. He rounded the corner of the house and stopped short at the sight that met him.

There, in the makeshift pigpen, lay his daughter, Alma. Her small frame was curled in a corner, her clothes dirtied by mud and straw. Tears streaked her cheeks, creating small trails through the dirt smudged across her face. Tomás felt a pang deep within him, a mix of anger, sorrow, and helplessness.

But it was not fury that guided his next actions. Years of discipline and the constant presence of danger had taught him the importance of calm. He crouched down, extending his arms toward Alma. “Alma, my little one,” he whispered gently.