That afternoon, Rosa had brought her son with her.
His name was Mateo.
He had been crouched near the flower beds, shaping clumps of soil in his hands, when he overheard words that echoed the sentences burned into Julian’s memory:
“No chance of recovery.”
“Irreversible damage.”
“Prepare for life as it is.”
Mateo stepped forward.
“I’m going to put mud on her eyes,” the boy said gently, “and she’ll see again.”
The garden went silent.
Julian turned sharply, his expression darkening.
“Who allowed this child near my daughter?” he demanded.
Rosa rushed over, pale with fear. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll take him away immediately.”
But Elena spoke first.
“Dad,” she whispered, “please let him stay. His voice sounds kind.”
Julian’s jaw tightened.
He looked at the boy’s dirt-streaked hands, his worn clothes, his bare feet.
Mud.
After everything he had spent, everything he had lost, it felt almost insulting.
“Do you have any idea how many doctors I’ve hired?” Julian said coldly. “How much money I’ve spent trying to help her?”
Mateo nodded.
“My mom told me,” he answered simply. “She said rich people trust money more than hope.”
Julian stiffened.
“That’s enough,” he snapped. “This isn’t some storybook fantasy.”