That’s all I ask.” The request reached the prison director, a 60-year-old man named Colonel Méndez, who had seen hundreds of convicts pass through that corridor.
Something about Ramiro’s file had always bothered him.
The evidence was solid: fingerprints on the weapon, bloodstained clothing, a witness who saw him leaving the house that night.
But Ramiro’s eyes weren’t the eyes of a guilty man.
Méndez had learned to recognize that look in his 30-year career.
“Bring the girl in,” he ordered.
Three hours later, a white van parked in front of the prison.
A social worker got out, holding the hand of a blonde girl with large eyes and a serious expression.
Salomé Fuentes was 8 years old, but her gaze carried the weight of someone who had seen too much.
The girl walked down the prison corridor without crying, without trembling.
The prisoners in their cells remained silent as she passed by. There was something about her that commanded respect, something no one could explain.
When she arrived at the visiting room, Salomé saw her father for the first time in three years.
Ramiro was handcuffed to the table, his orange uniform worn and his beard overgrown.
Seeing his daughter, his eyes filled with tears.
“My little girl,” he whispered, “my little Salomé.” What happened next would change everything.
Salomé let go of the social worker’s hand and walked slowly toward her father.
She didn’t run, she didn’t scream.
Each step was measured, as if she had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her mind.
Ramiro extended his handcuffed hands toward her.
The girl approached and hugged him.
For a full minute, neither of them said a word.
The guards watched from the corners.
The social worker checked her phone, paying no attention.
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