
CARMINA (28) moves like a machine. She’s the head chef—lean, sharp jaw, eyes that never soften. She tastes a sauce. Spits it out.
Sister Lucia hugs her. Carmina does not hug back. Her arms stay stiff at her sides. Carmina sits alone. Three bottles of red wine. One empty. On her phone, a legal email.
“The root of the balete tree grows toward the child who was left behind.”
Carmina holds a drawing. It’s a woman with no face. Just a body floating in darkness.
No. She left because I wasn’t worth staying for.