Later that night, the house fell into silence the way a slaughterhouse does after the pigs stop screaming.
Rosario had finally left, waddling out with a jar of pickles in one hand and an armful of snacks in the other, still muttering to herself about weird cravings and divine conception.
I watched her go through the window, her silhouette melting into the dusk like a greasy mirage, and only then did I let the breath I'd been holding slip out like smoke.
Silence was a rare luxury here. The kind that settled heavy on your chest like a cat that knew too much.
I waited. Five or ten minutes until, there was no sound and voices. All I could hear was the creak of the old wooden walls and the distant hoot of an owl who sounded like he'd seen things.
Then, at last, I stood. Or rather, I rose.
My bones cracked and my muscles stretched. I straightened, shook my limbs, and let out a soft grunt of relief.
God, it felt good.
