After a couple of long, suffocating hours, Grandma María finally stepped outside.
The wooden door behind her creaked softly as it opened, and every voice in the courtyard died at once. Even the cicadas seemed to quiet, as if the heat itself were holding its breath. The old woman wiped her hands on her apron, still faintly stained with blood and crushed herbs, and straightened her back before speaking.
"I was able to save him," she said.
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered servants and family members. Miguel's shoulders loosened for the first time since the shot rang out at the estate gates.
"But," Grandma María continued, raising a finger before hope could bloom too wildly, "it is impossible to remove the bullet. It is lodged too close to an artery. Taking it out would risk damaging the arm further—perhaps killing him outright. I judged it wiser to leave it where it is."
Silence followed. Heavy, dense silence.
