“Bring the girl,” he ordered.
Three hours later, a white van parked in front of the prison.
A social worker got out of it, holding the hand of a blonde girl, with large eyes and a serious expression.
Salomé Fuentes was 8 years old, but her gaze carried the weight of someone who has seen too much.
The girl walked down the prison corridor without crying, without trembling.
The prisoners in their cells were silent when they saw her pass.
There was something about her that commanded respect, something that no one could explain.
When she arrived in the visiting room, Salome saw her father for the first time in 3 years.
Ramiro was handcuffed to the table in his worn-out orange uniform and his beard grown.
When she saw her daughter, her eyes filled with tears.
My girl, she whispered, my little Salome, what happened next would change everything.
Salomé let go of the social worker’s hand and walked slowly towards her father.
He didn’t run, he didn’t scream.
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