Ramira’s scream echoed against the cold concrete walls of the visiting room, shaking something inside every person present, because it was not the scream of a desperate prisoner but of someone who had suddenly seen light after years of darkness.
The guards grabbed her arms, trying to force her back into the chair, but Ramira resisted with a strength born from something deeper than anger, something closer to truth finally finding air.
Colonel Méndez, who had been observing from the doorway, stepped forward slowly, raising a hand that ordered the guards to stop before the situation turned into another violent incident recorded in the prison log.
“Let her speak,” Méndez said calmly, his voice carrying authority that instantly froze the guards where they stood.
Ramira looked at him with burning eyes, tears still running down her cheeks, but now those tears carried a strange mixture of pain, relief, and a fierce determination that had not existed minutes earlier.
“My daughter knows something,” she said, breathing heavily. “Something no one asked her before… something that can prove everything they accused me of was a lie.”
The social worker frowned slightly, clearly uncomfortable, because the legal system had already closed Ramira Fuentes’s case long ago, and reopening anything now seemed impossible.
“She is only a child,” the social worker said carefully, as if trying to calm a situation that could spiral beyond control.
Salomé slowly turned her head toward the woman and spoke with a calmness that felt almost unsettling for someone her age.
“But I remember things adults forgot to ask,” the girl replied quietly.
Silence filled the small room again, heavier than before.
Colonel Méndez crouched slightly so his eyes were level with Salomé’s, studying her face with the same instinct he had developed after decades of interrogating criminals.
