The news did not spread all at once.
It moved quietly at first, like a crack forming beneath the surface of something long believed to be unbreakable.
A call.
Then another.
A file reopened.
A name whispered in offices where Ramira Fuentes had once been nothing more than a closed case number.
And then, by morning, everything began to shift.
The execution was halted at 2:17 a.m.
No ceremony.
No announcement to the public.
Just a single signed order sent through the prison system, stamped with urgency and disbelief.
Ramira did not sleep that night.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, her hands still trembling, her body too overwhelmed to rest, her mind replaying every word Salomé had spoken.
My uncle Mateo.
The truth had always been there.
Breathing beside her.
Growing up without her.
Carrying a burden that had never belonged to a child.
And now, finally—finally—it had been spoken aloud.
Three days later, the arrest was made.
Mateo Fuentes did not run.
That was the first thing that unsettled the officers.
