Chapter 12
Alejandro sat down heavily on the edge of the dusty cot, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. The silence of the cabin pressed in around him, heavy with the weight of unsaid words and abandoned responsibilities. He turned the pages of the sketchbook slowly, the heavy paper whispering in the quiet room. Interspersed between the charcoal drawings were handwritten journal entries—fragments of thoughts, poetry, and raw, unfiltered reflections on motherhood, isolation, and love. One entry, dated late November, caught his eye. The snow is coming early this year. The wood is low, and the cough won't leave my chest. I keep telling Leo stories about his father—how he walked like a king through the city streets, how he built things with his mind instead of his hands. I want Leo to know he comes from something big, even if that bigness left us behind in the cold. If I don't make it through the thaw, I’ve told him to take the rose. The rose always brings things back to where they started. Alejandro stared at the words until the ink blurred behind a wall of hot, sudden tears. He hadn't cried in over twenty years—not at his corporate promotions, not during the bitter arguments of his divorce, not even when his own father passed away in a sterile hospital bed. But sitting here in the drafty, forgotten cabin, surrounded by the ghosts of the life he had discarded, the dam broke. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against his knees, letting the long-suppressed grief wash over him without defense or hesitation. Outside, a soft crunch of gravel signaled approaching footsteps. Alejandro lifted his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, as the front door creaked open further. Leo stood in the doorway, framed by the bright northern light, holding Maya's small hand. The boy looked around the dusty room, his expression unreadable, before his dark eyes settled on Alejandro.
