I kept my eyes lowered—or closed entirely—moving through the office with the same careful precision I had perfected while blind.
Each step measured, each motion deliberate. No one questioned it. No one noticed.
To them, I was still the same.
Only when I reached the safety of my private office did I allow myself to look.
Papers neatly arranged on my desk, the subtle grain of the wood beneath my fingertips, the muted colors of the walls... details I had never been able to claim before.
But even as I took it in, my attention kept drifting.
Listening.
Waiting.
Every set of footsteps in the hallway made my heart jump, hope flaring before logic could suppress it.
It was never him.
The hours dragged.
Rafael never came.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
He didn’t miss work. Not like this. Not without explanation.
By the time the day ended, unease had settled firmly in my chest, heavy and persistent.
Could he still be at the grave?
Or had he gone somewhere else entirely... without telling anyone?
Without telling me?
I returned home that evening with that same weight pressing down on me.
I forced myself to eat—just enough to avoid suspicion—then wandered through the house, restless and searching.
When I asked the staff, I was met with the same polite, impenetrable responses.
“We have no information on Mr. Rafael’s whereabouts, señora.”
Their tone never wavered. Their expressions remained composed.
Loyalty.
It ran deep here—deeper than curiosity, deeper than concern.
No one would say more than they were allowed to.
Frustration prickled beneath my skin, but there was nothing I could do except retreat.
The second day passed the same way.
Waiting.
Listening.
