Valentina woke up seven days later.
It began with the smallest movement: her fingers tightening around Ernesto’s hand. He had slept in a chair for a week, shaved in the hospital bathroom, and placed one white rose beside her bed every morning because when she was little, she once said white roses looked like clouds that had decided to become flowers.
“Vale?” he whispered.
Her eyelids trembled.
The nurse rushed in. Doctors checked her pupils, reflexes, and breathing. Ernesto was forced to step back, even though every part of him wanted to hold her.
When Valentina opened her eyes, she looked around in terror.
Ernesto understood who she feared seeing.
“He is not here,” he told her. “He will not touch you.”
Tears slipped down Valentina’s temples.
Two days later, she was able to speak.
