At dusk, under a sky freckled with indifferent stars, they sat on a low wall and opened the book again. The pages now held annotations—scribbles in margins, corrections from hands that had touched the text before. The last line read: “Tontos de Capirote: the fools who make room for the rest.”

“You remember the child?” the taller asked.

“Of course,” the shorter said. “She hid pennies in church books. She thought saints were just people who learned to keep promises to silence.”