The lawyers nodded. Gonzalo Fuentes’ downfall had begun.
The prison gates opened at 3 p.m. The sun shone with an intensity that seemed unreal after five years of gray walls and artificial lights.
Ramiro Fuentes walked into the light for the first time as a free man. He had been bathed, shaved, and dressed in civilian clothes that smelled new.
They had returned his belongings to him: an empty wallet, a watch that no longer worked, and a photo of Salomé as a baby.
Colonel Méndez escorted him to the exit. “I owe him an apology,” the director said. “I should have investigated further.”
I should have trusted my instincts. You suspended the execution when you saw something strange, Ramiro replied. That saved my life. I have nothing to forgive you for.
They shook hands, a simple gesture that meant so much. Ramiro crossed the final gate and stopped. The outside world was overwhelming. The colors, the sounds, the smell of the fresh air.
I had dreamed of this moment thousands of times and now that it was here I didn’t know how to process it.
Then he saw them. Two figures were waiting by an old car. A thin woman with short hair. A blonde girl with enormous eyes.
Sara, Salomé. Ramiro couldn’t move, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His wife, whom he had mourned for five years, was alive. She was there waiting for him.
Salome was the first to run. She crossed the space between them like a blonde arrow and threw herself into her father’s arms.
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