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Alma knelt. She didn’t take the scissors. She took Rose’s hands instead. Cold. Trembling.
That night, they opened all the windows. Alma played a soft song on her guitar—no drums, no screaming. Rose made soup with too much chili. It made them both cough and laugh.
Si Rose and Si Alma were sisters, but the town of San Cielo swore they were born from different seasons.
They sat on the cold tiles until the light shifted from afternoon to dusk.
“Rose?” Alma’s voice dropped to a whisper she rarely used. “What are you doing?”
It was the first crack. Not loud. Just a hairline fracture in the quiet.