There, amidst the straw and dirt, lay Alma, curled up in the corner of the pigpen, her small frame dwarfed by the rough surroundings. Her eyes, closed in exhaustion, opened slowly as she sensed her father’s presence. The recognition in her eyes was immediate, a spark of light in the dim setting.

Tomás reached out, his touch gentle as he lifted her into his arms. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he felt the full weight of what she had endured in his absence.

—“Papa,” she whispered, her voice a mixture of relief and uncertainty.