You.
Standing in the courtyard of that same house in Guadalajara three years earlier, smiling faintly while watering Don Ernesto’s cactus pots in the morning sun. You had forgotten the photograph existed. You never even knew anyone took it. Your hair was tied back loosely. You wore one of your plain cotton dresses, the yellow one from Oaxaca that your mother said made your skin look warm even when you were tired. In the photo, you looked peaceful.
Loved, almost.
That is what undoes you.
