Jonathan Duarte

I didn't plan on staying in the office for so long. The rain started without warning, the traffic stopped, and the red lights seemed to mock me. Clara must have left an hour ago. Guilt tightened my chest; she hated waiting.

When I arrived at school, the lights were already off, except for one at the end of the hallway. I knocked softly on the door and saw her.

Clara slept on her teacher's lap. Natalia.

She stroked her hair, murmuring something so softly it could barely be heard over the patter of the rain. Her face was tired but serene, as if caring for my daughter seemed like the most natural thing in the world to her. For a moment, I wanted to back away. Not because it was an awkward scene, but because what I felt hurt. That image... that warmth... was what no longer existed in my home.

"I'm sorry," I said, barely a whisper.

She looked up. She smiled, small, like someone who understands without being explained. —It's okay. She fell asleep a while ago. I didn't want to leave her alone.

I nodded, not daring to look at her for too long. I knelt down to pick Clara up, and her little body nestled against my shoulder, confident and secure. Natalia covered her with a blanket that didn't belong in the classroom. It must have been hers. Smelling it was... strange. It was a soft, clean scent, something my house hadn't had in years.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

"You're welcome," he replied. But his voice didn't sound professional or distant. It sounded... human.

For a second, I thought he was going to say something else. But he just smiled at me again, that smile you can't force, the one you don't give to just anyone. And I left.

As I walked through the rain, holding Clara in my arms, I couldn't get the way she looked at me out of my head. Nor how, for a moment, I felt that someone was also looking at me.