No one asked for payment or any terms. One brought a hammer, another brought nails, and another just watched, but the next day left a bottle of sugar water at the entrance.

On opening day, five children sat in a row with their hands on the edges of their desks, their eyes wide as if it were summer. Alma stood in front of the bamboo blackboard with a piece of chalk between her fingers as if it were a magic stone. She looked at Tomás, took a deep breath, and then said slowly:

“My name is Alma. I used to live with pigs, but now I live with books.”

There was soft laughter, murmurs about what a pretty little girl she was. But Tomás discreetly turned away, as if dust had gotten into his eyes. No one named that emotion, but everyone understood it.

At noon, when the wind changed direction, a man entered the courtyard. He was wearing an old shirt, faded jeans, and a folded straw hat in his hand. He didn’t knock on the  door or go straight to the classroom; he just stood there quietly, as if waiting for an opportunity to return.

Tomás, washing his hands in the backyard, looked up and met that gaze. For a moment, the air stilled.

“Are you Don Tomás Herrera?” Zrenia asked the man in a clear but calm voice.

“Yes. Who are you looking for?”

“I’m Simón.”

That name made Tomás take a few seconds to place him. He studied his face carefully, then his thin, sun-tanned hands with an uncomfortable familiarity.

“You’re Miriam’s son.”

The man nodded. “I didn’t come to complain about anything; I just want to see Alma, if possible.”

Tomás clenched his fist for a moment, then released it, motioning her inside without showing emotion. Alma was cleaning the blackboard. Seeing the stranger, she instinctively took a step back. Tomás placed his hand on her shoulder as a sign of calm.

“This is Simón. He’s Doña Miriam’s son—that is, in a way, your brother.”

Alma said nothing. Her eyes showed no fear, just a cautious look, as if looking at a new page, not knowing where to begin.

Simón sat down without interrupting. When Alma returned to the board to write the letter C, he murmured:

“My mother abandoned me when I was 3. I don’t remember her face, but I heard she had a daughter at San Nicolás del Enino. I came not to reclaim the past, but only to tell you that you’re not the only one who was left behind.”

Alma didn’t turn around, but the cloth trembled for a moment. Tomás remained silent. No one tried to connect anything; they just let that confession exist on its own. Like an echo between two children who grew up in different crevices of the same wound.

In the afternoon, Simón said goodbye. Before leaving, he left a notebook on the table.

“Whatever she writes, leave it here. I won’t bother you. I just want to know she’s okay.”

Tomás nodded. There were no hugs or awkward handshakes, just a quiet acknowledgment between two men abandoned by the same woman.

Alma sat on the step. The afternoon sun illuminated her soft hair. She didn’t ask anything, just said:

“Dad, how do you spell Simón?”

Tomás let out a low but serene laugh.

“Write it as it sounds. The important thing is that you remember his name.”

The village elders say that the first wind is always cold, but if there’s fire in the heart, any place can feel warm. Tomás didn’t believe in philosophies, but he did believe in Alma’s small hand, the one that had once been covered in mud and now held the ink to write his future. And he knew her fire was still burning—silent, but alive.

There are children who carry a dark childhood on their shoulders. Not because they made mistakes, but because adults didn’t know how to love properly. In a world where tenderness has become a luxury, sometimes all it takes is a gentle word to open a door that never had a name.

No one noticed the old bicycle parked next to La Palma in the school’s backyard. Simón stood there, silent like his owner. A silent teenager with scars on his hands and eyes that avoided contact. Simón came from a place where no one wanted to talk about it. He wasn’t a good boy, but there was no one to teach him how to be either.

When Don Tomás rebuilt his old house to turn it into a classroom, Simón was the first to arrive—not to study, but to observe. He stood outside the fence for three days. On the fourth day, Don Tomás handed him a broom. He didn’t say anything, just nodded. From then on, Simón didn’t leave.

Simón was repairing the tin roof, his hands hardened but steady. Each tile was placed with precision, as if it had never trembled. Don Tomás, down below, held the wooden ladder with both hands.

“You need to put in a thinner plank there. The wind was strong last night. It almost blew half the roof off,” he said without looking at him, lifting the plank up.

Simón took it without a word. He was used to receiving orders, but this time it wasn’t an order—it was trust.

Under the tree, Alma spread out a cotton blanket. On top of it, a small wooden box contained all sorts of things: threads, old buttons, loose beads, even a piece of broken radio wire. With dedication, she put something together with her hands. Her eyes sparkled every time she managed a perfect knot.

Almost at noon, Alma approached quietly. In her hands, a small keychain made of copper wire and carved wood. In the center, a small piece of leather engraved with the letter S.

“It’s for you,” she said in a low voice.

Simón didn’t take it immediately; he looked at it, then at her. There was no fear or distrust in her eyes, only something that closely resembled faith. Finally, he accepted it and nodded slightly. When Alma turned to leave, he heard her soft murmur