That morning, Miguel had woken before sunrise beneath a bridge in El Raval, where he lived with Isabel. He watched her sleep, fragile and coughing even in rest, wrapped in a blanket salvaged months earlier. To him, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.
It was November 24th—their anniversary. Thirty-seven years before, they had married in a small church in Andalusia. Isabel wore a simple white dress sewn by her mother; Miguel borrowed a suit from his brother. They had nothing but love, and for years, it had been enough.
Everything collapsed six years earlier when the construction firm Miguel had worked for decades shut down. No one would hire him. Their savings vanished, then their apartment. Family turned away. Isabel fell ill, medication cost more than they could manage, and eventually, they found themselves on the streets.
Still, Miguel never stopped caring for her. He brought flowers from public gardens, read discarded newspapers aloud, told stories to distract her pain, and always found a way to honor their anniversary.