That Tuesday started like any other. Ana arrived at seven, put on her light blue uniform, and started in the kitchen. She prepared the café de olla that Doña Isabel loved—brewed with cinnamon and raw cane sugar—then went upstairs to clean. In the master bedroom, atop a fine wooden vanity, a gold chain sparkled. It was thick, with an oval medal of the Virgin of Guadalupe engraved with small initials: “I.V.”
Ana stared at it. She had a similar chain at home, made of silver, which her mother had left her before disappearing when Ana was a child. She kept that silver chain tucked away in her nightstand drawer.
“This chain is so beautiful,” Ana thought. It occurred to her that she might have left her own chain there the day before while cleaning and forgotten it. She picked it up, put it around her neck, and kept working. The medal felt cold and heavy against her skin. “No big deal, I’ll just keep it safe,” she told herself. She finished her shift and left at five: “See you tomorrow, Doña Isabel. Sleep well.”