“Papa,” said Isabella, turning her face toward him with chilling accuracy, “why didn’t you tell us about Grandma Rosa?”
Alejandro staggered. He had never spoken that name. In fact, he knew no Rosa.
“I don’t know this woman,” he said, forcing steadiness. “Come here.”
“But she has Mama’s eyes,” Lucía said softly, touching the old woman’s face. “And she smells like Mama’s perfume—the one in your locked drawer.”
Alejandro froze. His late wife’s perfume. Her name—Rosa Cruz.
“How could you know that?” he whispered.
“My son,” the old woman said gently, “your daughters have Rosa’s eyes. And her light.”
The world tilted.
Rosa Cruz had died three years earlier from childbirth complications. Yet this stranger knew everything.
Before Alejandro could speak, Renata pointed skyward. “Papa, the clouds look like a heart.”
She pointed perfectly.
Pulled away moments later, the girls reverted to stumbling blindly—yet at home they described colors, clothing, flowers.
“We saw them,” Isabella said simply. “Near Grandma Rosa, we can see.”
That night, Alejandro found them awake.
“She’s singing to us,” Lucía said.
“What song?”
They hummed a lullaby Alejandro remembered—one Rosa used to sing while pregnant.