The sight that met him was heart-wrenching. Alma, his precious child, was curled up in the straw, her small frame tucked into itself for warmth. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt, hair tangled like a wild halo around her angelic face. The pigpen was a makeshift bed, a place of refuge when the house had grown cold and unwelcoming.

Tomás felt the weight of the world in that moment, more than any battlefield had ever imparted upon him. But instead of anger, a profound sadness enveloped him. He knelt beside Alma, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She stirred awake, blinking up at him with eyes that mirrored both shock and relief.

“Papa?” Her voice was fragile, a whisper of disbelief.