Not shock.
Just a quiet, tired smile.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” he said.
Back at the prison, Ramira was called into a different room.
Not the visiting room.
Not the cold, gray space where hope had first returned to her.
This one had windows.
Small, high ones—but windows nonetheless.
Colonel Méndez stood waiting when she entered.
He looked different.
Less like a man carrying authority.
More like someone carrying responsibility.
“They’ve arrested him,” he said without preamble.
Ramira’s breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Because hearing the words felt unreal.
Because justice, after five years of silence, did not arrive like thunder.
It arrived like something fragile.
Something that could still break if she touched it too quickly.
“And… Salomé?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
“She’s safe,” Méndez replied. “She’s been placed under protective supervision. He won’t get anywhere near her again.”
Ramira closed her eyes.
Tears slipped down her face, slower this time.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Just… release.
“I should have protected her,” she whispered.
Méndez shook his head gently.
“No,” he said. “You survived for her. And she told the truth for you.”
He paused, then added quietly,
“That’s what saved both of you.”
The retrial did not happen immediately.
Justice, even when it begins to move, does not move quickly.
But this time, it moved differently.
Not like before.
Not rushed.
