The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that danced against the cracked stone walls. The faint scent of copal lingered in the air, incense that Mama burned earlier clung to the fabric of our small world like a memory refusing to leave. It was a small and cramped world, with a low ceiling making space feel even tighter. A single wooden bed, worn smooth by time and use, was pushed against one wall, its blanket neatly folded despite its threadbare condition.

  Near the opposite wall, a wooden table stood cluttered with small jars of herbs, a clay pitcher of water, and a few tattered books Mama had managed to collect over the years. The floor was uneven stone, cold underfoot, though we kept it swept clean. We didn’t have much, but we made sure what we did have was cared for.

  The altar sat in its usual corner, adorned with marigolds and small painted skulls, their colors vibrant even in the dim light. Mama had arranged it carefully, as she did every week, spreading out the offerings and arranging everything on the alter meticulously. There was something timeless about it, the way she smoothed the flowers’ petals and whispered her prayers. She said she prayed for us – for our protection – but I sometimes wondered if she prayed for herself, too.

  I glanced above at the wooden beam above me, a crack running through its center. The faint creaks of footsteps drifted down from above, barely audible over the stillness of the room. I imagined the world beyond, the golden halls Mama described when I was younger, filled with music and light. But I could only hear the weight of their lives pressing down on ours, a quiet reminder of the divide that would never be crossed.

  Ours was a humble space, tucked away and hidden, as if we were something to be ashamed of. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. This was our life – small, confined, and forgotten – even though the noble who owned this estate was our father.

  I sat cross-legged on the woven mat, combing through Luz’s wild curls. Her hair, a rich cascade of deep brown with streaks of black, caught the candlelight as it framed her soft, tawny face. “Hold still,” I murmured as she tilted her head to glance at the altar. She didn’t listen, humming softly to herself as she swayed to the rhythm.

  The melody was familiar and soothing – a lullaby our mother often sang to us at night. She said it was old, part of our culture our history, though the words were long gone. Luz didn’t seem to mind. The melody was enough for her. Her small frame leaned comfortably against my knee, her voice soft and lilting as she filled the room with the gentle rise and fall of the tune. The melody was haunting and sweet, like a whispered memory carried through the air. It had a way of making the space feel less empty, less tight.

  Camila sat nearby, her warm brown skin glowing faintly in the dim light as she worked on stitching the hem of one of our few dresses. Her head was bowed in concentration, her hair – dark and sleek – pulled back neatly as her hands worked with quiet precision. Her needle dipped in and out of the fabric, catching the candlelight with each pass, the steady motion a comfort in the stillness. Camila always worked like this, methodical and unhurried, as if the world wouldn’t dare disrupt her focus. Her dark eyes glanced up briefly, glinting in the candlelight, before returning to the rhythmic motion of her hands.

  Camila’s hands paused for a moment, her dark eyes flicking up to Luz again as if the song had drawn her from her thoughts. “You’re humming too fast,” she said softly, her voice carrying that calm steadiness she always had. “It’s slower than that, isn’t it, Selene?”

  I nodded, though Luz didn’t seem to notice, lost in her own rhythm. “Mama says it’s meant to guide,” I said, more to myself than to them. “Not to rush.”

  Luz frowned slightly, but her humming shifted, slowing down to match the pace of the song as Mama would sing it. For a moment, the room felt quieter, the melody filling the space like a soft heartbeat. It reminded me of the way Mama arranged the altar – gentle and deliberate, like every small action carried meaning. It was her way of holding onto something bigger than us, something I didn’t always understand but knew was important.

  “Do you think Mama will teach me to make the altar one day?” Luz asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

  “Probably,” I said, keeping my tone even. Luz’s questions had a way of wandering to places I didn’t want to think about. I combed through another section of her hair, focusing on the motion rather than her words, hoping she’d let the matter drop.

  She fell quiet, and for a moment, I thought she might. But then he gaze shifted to the ceiling, her eyes catching the faint flicker of candlelight on the cracked beam above us. “Do you think the sky would have an altar too?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder. “With stars for marigolds? Do you think it’s as big as Mama says? With stars brighter than diamonds?”

  I paused mid-stroke with the comb, her words pulling at a part of me I usually kept buried. I didn’t want to think about the sky or the stars or the world beyond these walls. But Luz had a way of dragging me there, whether I wanted to go or not. A part of me wanted to dream, just like her. To imagine the stars and skies, to believe that maybe the stories were true. But dreams were dangerous. They made the walls feel tighter, the air heavier.

  “No,” I said finally, my voice firm but careful. “The altar isn’t for the sky, Luz. It’s for the spirits. For the ones who came before us. Mama says it helps guide them back to us.”

  Luz tilted her head, her curls brushing against my hand. “But couldn’t the stars guide them too?”

  Camila glanced up from her stitching, her needle paused mid-thread. “Not everything needs to be about the sky, Luz,” she said gently. Her voice had that steady calm that always made people listen, even when she didn’t say much. “The stars are just… stars. They’re not like marigolds or offerings. They don’t belong to us.”

  Luz frowned, her lips pressing together in that stubborn way she had. “But maybe they’re for everyone,” she said softly. “Not just the spirits. Maybe they’re for us too.”

  I didn’t answer right away. The comb moved through her hair slowly, more for something to do than anything else. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that stars were too far away to mean anything. But the way she looked at me, her eyes wide and hopeful, made it impossible.

  “I don’t know,” I said finally, avoiding her gaze. “Maybe.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, at least for the moment. She turned her gaze back to the ceiling, her voice soft as she continued, “I think the stars are waiting for us. Like lights to guide the way, just like Mama’s marigolds. I bet they’re even prettier than in her stories.” Her tone was filled with wonder, the kind that made me ache inside.

  I stayed silent, unwilling to let her words take root in my mind. What if she was right? What if there really was a world out there, vast and breathtaking, just as Mama’s stories said? The thought twisted in my chest – a world so big, so beautiful, and forever out of reach. Not from here. Not for us.

  I tried to make myself focus on her hair, on the comb gliding through her curls, the candlelight flickering on the altar. But my mind kept wandering, like it always did when Luz asked these kinds of questions. The crack in the ceiling seemed to stretch wider, the room pressing in closer, and my chest heavier with every breath.

  Luz continued again tilting her head, her curls brushing against my hand. “But what if the stars are for us?” she said softly, her voice tinged with wonder. “What if they’re waiting for someone to find them? Don’t you ever think about it, Selene? About what it would be like to leave this place? To see something more?”

  I gritted my teeth, the comb faltering in my hand. “Luz, stop,” I said sharply, my voice cutting through her words like a blade. “The stars aren’t waiting for us. They don’t care about us, and dreaming about them isn’t going to change anything.”

  Her shoulders tensed, and she twisted away from me, curling into herself. “I was just saying,” she murmured, her voice small now.

  The silence that followed was like a weight pressing against my ribs. Regret hit me almost instantly, sharp and unforgiving, the sting of my words hanging in the air. It wasn’t Luz’s fault. She wasn’t the reason the air felt so stifling, the walls so close, or why this life felt like a cage we couldn’t escape. It was me – too afraid to dream the way she did, too bound by the reality I couldn’t ignore. I exhaled slowly, setting the comb down with a deliberate motion. Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead into my hands, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me.

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  “Luz,” I said softly, looking up again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But thoughts like those… they can be dangerous.”

  Camila glanced up from her stitching, her needle paused mid-thread. “Selene,” she said, her voice steady and calm as always. “You don’t have to be so harsh. She’s just dreaming.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said, running a hand through my hair and letting out a low sigh. My frustration boiled over, not at them, but at myself. “Dreams make you want things you can’t have. They make you hope for something more but it’ll shatter her once she realizes that hope is pointless.”

  Even as I said it, the bitterness in my words stung. I hated how they sounded, like I was trying to crush her light. How could I make them understand? Dreams didn’t fix anything. They didn’t change the walls that trapped us or the weight we all carried. Maybe I was wrong to think that way, but the world wasn’t as kind as Luz wanted it to be. And when she realized that, when reality hit her the way it had hit me, what would it do to her? Would she hate me for not protecting her from it? Or worse, would she hate herself for believing?

  I swallowed hard, the taste of my own frustration sharp on my tongue. I wasn’t angry at Luz. Not really. I was angry at the world for being so unrelenting. And maybe a little at myself – for not being brave enough to hope like she did.

  “But what’s wrong with dreaming?” Luz asked, twisting around to face me again. Her expression was small and hurt, her tawny face shadowed in the candlelight. “What’s wrong with imagining something nice?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. I couldn’t find the words to explain what I was feeling, not to them, not even to myself.

  “She doesn’t mean it,” Camila said, reaching out to brush Luz’s arm. “You know how she gets when she doesn’t want to talk about something.”

  Luz looked between us, her lips pressed in a thin line. “I think you should dream more, Selene. Maybe then you wouldn’t look so tired all the time.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat. She wasn’t wrong – I did feel tired. Tired of the same four walls, the same routines, the same oppressive weight of responsibility. But dreaming didn’t make the weight lighter. If anything, it made it heavier, like holding a fragile thing you knew would break. Luz’s words lingered in the air, I couldn’t help but wish – just for a moment – that I could see what she saw and wondered if the stars really were waiting for us.

  The sound of the door creaking open drew all our attention. Mama stepped inside, moving carefully, as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Her back was straight, her chin lifted with the quiet dignity she always carried, but the faint tremor in her movements didn’t escape my notice.

  “Mama,” I said softly, shifting where I sat as Luz turned to face her. Camila paused her stitching, her needle hovering mid-thread.

  Mama offered us a small smile before walking to the altar. She sank down slowly, folding her legs beneath her as her hand brushed over the marigolds, straightening one of the petals. She always did this, like the act of tending the altar could steady her. The candlelight softened the lines on her face, but the weariness in her eyes was impossible to hide.

  Her cough broke the silence. It was dry and rattling, the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. We all turned toward her, watching as she pressed a hand to her chest and took a shaky breath.

  “Mama,” I said, rising to my feet. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice even. “Don’t fuss”

  Was she fine? I wasn’t sure. There was a heaviness in her movements, a slight hesitation that made me wonder. Her hands seemed to linger on the altar as if grounding herself, her fingers brushing the edges of a small clay bowl filled with incense ash. Maybe it was just the flickering candlelight playing tricks on me, but something about her movements felt like a quiet confession she didn’t want us to hear.

  Camila, always attentive, set aside her stitching and rose quietly, her movements smooth and deliberate. She crossed the room to where a small, battered clay teapot rested on the table near the pitcher of water. Its once vivid glaze, a deep earthy red, had faded over the years to a muted, patchy brown, with the edges chipped and worn smooth from use. Steam curled faintly from its spout, the only sign of life in the old vessel. Beside it was a matching cup, the same faded red with streaks of pale beige where the glaze had worn thin. A crack ran along the handle, and a chip on the rim revealed the dull clay beneath. Camila poured the tea with careful precision, the liquid’s amber warmth contrasting against the teapot’s weathered surface. Returning to Mama’s side, she knelt and offered the cup, her voice soft. “Her, Mama. It’s still warm.”

  Mama took the cup with a small nod of thanks but didn’t drink it right away. Instead, she turned her focus back to the altar, her fingers tracing the edge of a small clay bowl holding incense ash. Her lips moved silently, murmuring a prayer too soft for us to hear. She reached for one of the painted skulls, turning it slightly as though aligning it with the others, her movements deliberate and careful. I couldn’t help but watch her, noting the faint tremble in her hands as she straightened an offering bowl that didn’t need adjusting. When she finally finished, she exhaled slowly, as if the prayer had cost her more than she’d admit.

  She pressed a hand to her chest and pushed herself to her feet with visible effort, her other hand steadying herself against the edge of the altar. The motion was small but deliberate, and I felt an ache in my chest as I watched her. “Mama,” I started, but she waved me off gently.

  Her movements were slow and careful as she walked to the bed, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor. She held the cup close, its warmth seeming to anchor her as she spoke. “It was a long conversation,” she said softly, her voice carrying a tired weight she tried to mask. “But I think he understands what needs to be done.”

  She sat down carefully, lowering herself onto the bed with a faint sigh, and placed the cup on the small table beside her. Luz climbed up almost immediately, curling up beside her. Camilla kept her head bowed, her hands deftly moving through her stitching, though I could see the tightness in her expression, the way her fingers gripped the fabric a little harder than necessary. It was the same tightness I felt, a know of unease curling in the put of my stomach.

  Luz broke the silence again, her voice soft but insistent. “Mama, did you tell him anything else about us?” Her eyes were wide with curiosity, the kind that refused to be dimmed even by the tension.

  Mama hesitated, her fingers smoothing Luz’s curls absentmindedly. “I told him what he needed to know,” she said finally. “That my daughters are strong and clever. That I’m proud of you all.” She paused, her voice growing quieter. “But not more than that. Some things are better left unsaid.”

  The way she said it made something in me tighten further. There was a weight in her words, as though they carried something heavier than she wanted us to notice.

  “But he didn’t ask more?” Luz pressed, leaning back to look at Mama directly. “He’s our father. Shouldn’t her care?”

  Camila’s needle froze mid-thread again, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “Luz,” she said gently but firmly, “that’s enough.”

  Mama’s smile wavered for just a moment before she spoke again, her voice steady but layered with an edge of finality. “He cares in the way he knows how, Luz. That’s all there is to it.”

  Luz frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer, but she didn’t push further. Instead, her gaze drifted upward, her fingers tracing the edge of the bed frame as though imagining it were something else entirely. “Do you think he ever looks at the stars?” she murmured. “Like us?”

  Mama stilled for a fraction of a second, her hand pausing mid-stroke against Luz’s hair. Her expression softened, but there was something distant in her gaze.

  “Maybe,” she said, her tone unreadable. “Or maybe he’s like the rest of us – too busy with the weight of the world to notice what’s above him.”

  The words struck me in a way I hadn’t expected. The weight of the world. It was something we all carried in different ways, I realized. Mama bore it in her quiet strength, Camila in her careful observations, Luz in her endless dreaming. And me? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I carried it in the cracks I try to hold together, the walls I build to keep my sisters safe from things I couldn’t even name.

  Luz seemed to sense the shift in the room’s tone. She pressed closer to Mama, her voice smaller now. “Do you think the stars would still guide us, even if we don’t know where we’re going?”

  Mama leaned down, pressing a kiss to Luz’s forehead. “The stars don’t guide us, mi peque?a,” she said softly. “We guide ourselves. The stars are just there to remind us of where we’ve been.”

  Camila glanced up from her stitching, her dark eyes meeting mine briefly. There was a quiet understanding in her gaze, a shared recognition of the weight Mama carried. But neither of us said anything. We let the moment pass, settling into the fragile calm that followed.

  Mama adjusted her position on the bed, her movements slow and deliberate. The cup of tea sat untouched on the table beside her, its warmth dissipating into the air. She exhaled softly, her voice breaking the quiet. “You girls have grown so much,” she said her tone lightening just a little. “I see it in the way you carry yourselves. Stronger than you realize.”

  The compliment felt bittersweet, like it carried a goodbye she wasn’t saying out loud. I wanted to ask her about it, to press her for more, but I didn’t. Not with Luz curled against her, and not with Camila’s gaze flicking between Mama and me like she was piecing something together on her own.

  Instead, I shifted where I sat, resting my chin on my knees. “Do you think he’ll come here?” I asked quietly.

  Mama’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted – just the faintest stiffening of her shoulders. “He might,” she said after a moment. “But not for the reasons you think.”

  I frowned, her answer once again leaving me with more questions than it resolved. “What does that mean?”

  Mama didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted back to the altar, her fingers brushing over Luz’s hair absentmindedly. “It means,” she said carefully, “that some people don’t come back because they want to. They come back because they have to.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. I didn’t understand what she meant – not fully – but the weight of them pressed against my chest all the same.