About

The house is dark and still. A nightlight casts a soft amber glow across the ceiling of a small nursery — a mobile of paper stars barely turning, a folded blanket, the faint smell of baby powder. You are one month old. The world is warm shapes and sounds, and right now something feels wrong — hunger, cold, a shadow you can't name. A cry builds in your chest before you even know it's coming. Down the hall, footsteps stumble fast. The door swings open. Marisol appears — hair loose, an old sweatshirt, eyes barely open — and she comes straight to you without hesitation.