"Mr. Castillo, she's dead. Mrs. Reyes is dead."

The words were delivered calmly, almost professionally, yet they lingered in the air long after the caller had finished speaking.

Gabriel Castillo sat motionless behind his desk, his fingers tightening around the phone as he stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. From the thirty-fifth floor, Guadalajara looked peaceful. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the city, and the streets below buzzed with life as people hurried from one destination to another. None of them knew that a woman had died that morning in a prison cell, and even if they did, most would not have cared.

Sofia Reyes had been forgotten a long time ago.

"When?" Gabriel finally asked.

"Early this morning, sir. The prison authorities said she passed away in her sleep. They are requesting that the family come to identify the body."

Family.

The word felt strangely unfamiliar.

Gabriel thanked the caller and ended the conversation before leaning back in his chair. For several minutes, he remained there, listening to the quiet hum of the air conditioner and watching the traffic below. He had imagined this moment many times over the years. Whenever news about the prison appeared on television or his secretary informed him that another year had passed, he occasionally wondered what he would feel when the woman who had given birth to him finally died.

The answer, it seemed, was very little.

His gaze drifted toward a framed photograph resting on the corner of his desk. It was old enough for the edges to have faded slightly. Five children stood in front of a large mansion, smiling brightly at the camera. Gabriel recognized himself immediately. Beside him stood Mateo, Daniel, Elena, and Lucía.

He stared at the picture longer than necessary.

What troubled him wasn't what was in the photograph.

It was what wasn't.

Neither of his parents appeared in it.

A strange emptiness settled over him as he realized that he could remember every detail of that day—the weather, the garden, the photographer's impatience—yet he struggled to remember his mother's face. He could recall fragments of her existence, a gentle voice humming somewhere in the distance, the faint scent of lavender, a pair of hands smoothing wrinkles from his school uniform, but her face remained frustratingly blurred.

Time had stolen it from him.

Or perhaps he had allowed it to be stolen.

The soft buzz of the intercom interrupted his thoughts.

Gabriel pressed the button.

"Maria, come in."

The door opened a moment later, and his secretary stepped inside carrying a tablet. She had worked for him for nearly ten years and knew better than most people how to read his moods, yet today, she seemed uncertain.

"You called for me, sir?"

"My mother died this morning."

The statement left her visibly surprised.

Although Gabriel rarely discussed his personal life, rumours had always followed him. Some believed he had been raised by relatives. Others believed his parents were already dead. Very few people knew the truth.

His mother had spent more than two decades in prison for murdering his father.

Maria recovered quickly and nodded.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Gabriel wasn't sure whether condolences were necessary, but he appreciated the gesture.

"Please contact my siblings. Tell them we'll meet at the Castillo estate tomorrow afternoon."

"The old house?" she asked.

"Yes."

Maria hesitated before speaking again.

"Will you be attending the funeral personally?"

Gabriel considered the question.

The honest answer was that he didn't know.

He wasn't avoiding the funeral out of anger. Whatever resentment he had once carried had faded years ago. The problem was that Sofia Reyes had become little more than a distant memory. She was a woman whose face he could barely remember and whose voice had long since disappeared from his mind.

Yet she was still his mother.

"I'll decide when the time comes," he said.

Maria nodded and left the office.

Once alone again, Gabriel walked toward the liquor cabinet positioned in the corner of the room. He poured himself a glass of vodka and stood by the window, watching as the sun slowly disappeared behind the skyline.

His father had always loved sunsets.

The thought surfaced unexpectedly.

Gabriel frowned.

For years, he had remembered his father as a respected politician, a devoted family man, and a victim whose life had been cut short by a jealous and unstable wife. That was the story everyone knew. It was the story newspapers had repeated countless times.

And yet, for reasons he couldn't explain, the memory suddenly felt incomplete.

He finished his drink and set the glass aside.

By tomorrow evening, he and his siblings would be standing inside the old Castillo estate for the first time in years. The property would eventually be sold. There was no reason to keep it. The house contained nothing except dust, old furniture, and memories nobody wanted.

Or so he believed.

Hundreds of miles away, in a room that had remained locked for decades, a leather-bound diary rested at the bottom of an antique wardrobe beneath folded dresses and yellowing blankets Its pages had grown brittle with age, and a layer of dust covered its faded cover.

No one had touched it in twenty-two years.

No one knew it existed.

Hidden within those pages was a truth powerful enough to destroy everything the Castillo family believed about their past.

The diary had waited patiently for more than two decades.

Now, at last, it was about to be found.

Gabriel barely slept that night.

After receiving the news of his mother's death, he had spent hours staring at the city lights from his office before eventually returning home. Sleep had come in fragments, interrupted by memories he could never fully grasp. Faces appeared and disappeared in his dreams. A woman hummed softly somewhere in the distance. A child laughed. Then, everything faded before he could hold onto it.

By the time morning arrived, he was already dressed and standing in the study of his estate.

The house was enormous, far larger than any man living alone, truly needed. The walls were lined with bookshelves and expensive artwork collected over the years. Every piece had been carefully chosen to reflect the image Gabriel had spent decades building: successful, disciplined, and respectable.

Yet despite all its elegance, the house felt empty.

His gaze drifted to the grandfather clock standing in the corner.

Mateo will be arriving soon.

Right on time.

Gabriel glanced at his watch.

Three minutes later, the doorbell rang.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

Some habits never changed.

When they were children, Mateo had always hated being late. If school began at eight, he would be ready by seven. If dinner was at six, he would be seated by five fifty-five. Their father used to praise him for it constantly.

The memory surfaced unexpectedly.

Gabriel immediately pushed it away.

The butler opened the door, and moments later, Mateo entered the living room.

At forty-one, he looked almost exactly as Gabriel remembered. His dark hair was neatly combed, his suit perfectly fitted, and his expression carried the same permanent irritation he seemed to wear whenever family was involved.

He embraced Gabriel briefly before stepping back.

"You look terrible."

Gabriel chuckled.

"And it's good to see you too."

"I'm serious."

"It's been a long week."

Mateo removed his coat and handed it to the butler.

"Mother dies, and suddenly we're all expected to play happy family."

Gabriel sighed inwardly.

The conversation had barely begun.

"Sit down."

Mateo did, though not before muttering something under his breath.

The two brothers sat in silence for a moment.

Neither knew what to say.

Death had a way of forcing people together even when they had spent years growing apart.

"Did they say how it happened?" Mateo eventually asked.

"No."

"I suppose it doesn't matter."

Gabriel looked at him.

"It still matters."

Mateo laughed bitterly.

"To who?"

The question hung in the air.

Gabriel didn't answer because he wasn't entirely sure himself.

Before either could continue, another vehicle entered the driveway.

Daniel.

The youngest of the brothers.

Gabriel watched through the window as Daniel stepped out of his car.

Unlike Mateo, Daniel had never cared much about appearances. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms, his tie slightly loose, and his hair looked as though he had run his hands through it multiple times during the drive.

He entered the house carrying an overnight bag.

"I hope this won't take long," were the first words out of his mouth.

Mateo laughed.

"Nice to see you too."

Daniel shrugged.

"I'm just being honest."

Gabriel shook his head.

"At least pretend to be civilized."

Daniel dropped into a chair.

"Mother's dead. We're here because we have to be. Let's not pretend this is some heartwarming reunion."

The room fell quiet again.

Gabriel hated admitting it, but Daniel wasn't entirely wrong.

For years, the siblings had maintained contact out of obligation rather than affection. They spoke during holidays, attended each other's major life events, and checked in occasionally, but the closeness they had once shared had faded long ago.

Perhaps it had begun the day their father died.

Perhaps it had begun even earlier.

The sound of another car pulling into the driveway interrupted his thoughts.

Lucía had arrived.

Unlike her brothers, she didn't wait for the butler to answer the door.

Moments later, she walked into the living room carrying her handbag and wearing an expression that immediately told Gabriel she was upset.

Not sad.

Upset.

The difference was important.

Her eyes moved across the room.

Gabriel.

Mateo.

Daniel.

One by one.

Then she frowned.

"You're discussing the estate already, aren't you?"

Nobody answered.

That alone seemed to confirm her suspicions.

"You haven't even buried her."

Mateo rolled his eyes.

"Here we go."

"No, seriously," Lucía continued. "Our mother died yesterday, and you're already talking about houses and inheritance."

"There isn't much else to discuss."

Lucía stared at him.

"She was our mother."

The words carried more emotion than Gabriel expected.

Mateo leaned forward.

"And she murdered our father."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop instantly.

Gabriel saw Lucía's jaw tighten.

For a moment, he thought she might explode.

Instead, she took a deep breath.

"Do you know what bothers me?" she asked quietly.

Nobody answered.

"The fact that every single conversation about her ends the same way."

Mateo crossed his arms.

"Because she killed him."

"According to the courts."

Daniel looked up.

"What exactly are you trying to say?"

Lucía hesitated.

For a second, she appeared uncertain.

Then she shook her head.

"Nothing."

The answer surprised Gabriel.

Lucía had always been emotional, but she wasn't reckless. If she had doubts about something, she usually kept them to herself.

Still, something in her expression suggested there was more she wanted to say.

She sat down opposite her brothers.

"I just think she deserves better than this."

"Better than what?" Mateo asked.

"Better than being buried like some forgotten criminal."

Nobody spoke.

Lucía's voice softened.

"Whether you liked her or not, she carried us. She raised us. She gave us life."

Gabriel noticed Daniel looking away.

Even Mateo seemed slightly uncomfortable.

The truth was that none of them actually remembered much about Sofia.

Twenty-two years was a long time.

Long enough for anger to replace memories.

It's long enough for a person to become little more than a story.

Long enough for children to forget their mother's face.

Lucía lowered her gaze.

"I don't want her buried alone."

The room grew quiet.

For the first time since arriving, nobody had a sarcastic response.

Because beneath the resentment and old wounds was an uncomfortable reality.

Sofia Reyes had died alone.

No husband.

No children.

No family by her side.

Just prison walls and strangers.

Gabriel found himself wondering what her final moments had been like.

Had she been afraid?

Had she been in pain?

Had she called out for any of them?

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Finally, Lucía looked at him.

"You make the decision."

The others followed her gaze.

As the eldest sibling, the responsibility always landed on Gabriel eventually.

He remained silent for several seconds.

Then he nodded.

"We'll hold a proper funeral."

Lucía's shoulders relaxed immediately.

Mateo groaned.

Daniel sighed.

But neither objected.

The decision had been made.

Gabriel rose from his chair and walked toward the study.

Closing the door behind him, he called his secretary.

Maria answered on the second ring.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

"I need arrangements made."

"For the funeral?"

"Yes."

He sat behind his desk.

"I want a traditional Catholic funeral."

Maria immediately began typing notes.

"A wake?"

"Yes."

"A funeral Mass?"

"Yes."

"And burial afterwards?"

Gabriel paused.

"Yes."

There was a brief silence.

"Will the family be attending?"

"All of us."

"Understood."

"Keep the media away."

"Of course."

After ending the call, Gabriel remained seated.

The funeral would take place in three days.

Friends, distant relatives, and a handful of people who still remembered Sofia would attend.

Prayers would be said.

Candles would be lit.

A coffin would be lowered into the ground.

Then it would be over.

The final chapter of Sofia Reyes' life would close forever.

Or at least that was what Gabriel believed.

What none of the siblings knew was that the past wasn't finished with them yet.

While they were preparing to bury their mother, the old Castillo estate was quietly holding onto secrets that had survived more than two decades.

And secrets had a way of resurfacing when people least expected them.

The rain began just as they arrived.

Thin droplets slid down the windows of Gabriel's car as he pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. The sky above Guadalajara was a dull shade of grey, and the streets glistened beneath the fading afternoon light.

For several moments, nobody moved.

Daniel sat in the passenger seat, staring through the windshield while Mateo scrolled absently through his phone. In the car behind them, Lucía waited alone.

The silence felt strange.

Not uncomfortable.

It's just unfamiliar.

Perhaps because none of them knew how they were supposed to behave.

Children were expected to grieve when their mother died.

Yet grief required memories.

And memories were something the Castillo siblings seemed to possess less and less of with every passing year.

Gabriel finally switched off the engine.

"We should go in."

Neither brother argued.

The four siblings crossed the parking lot together, their shoes splashing through shallow puddles as rain tapped softly against their umbrellas.

The funeral home stood quietly at the end of the street.

No reporters waited outside.

No cameras.

No curious onlookers.

It's just a simple building decorated with white flowers.

As Gabriel climbed the steps, he found himself remembering his father's funeral.

The crowd had stretched far beyond the church gates.

Politicians, journalists, businessmen, supporters.

Hundreds of people had come to pay their respects.

His father's death had dominated headlines for weeks.

His mother's death had barely warranted a phone call.

The thought lingered unpleasantly in his mind.

Inside, the funeral home smelled faintly of lilies and candle wax.

A woman dressed in black greeted them politely before leading them through a quiet hallway.

The sound of their footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor.

Nobody spoke.

Gabriel wasn't sure whether they were afraid of disturbing the silence or afraid of what awaited them at the end of the corridor.

The viewing room stood partially open.

Warm light spilt through the doorway.

The woman stepped aside.

"You may enter whenever you're ready."

Then she left.

For several seconds, the siblings remained where they were.

Mateo folded his arms.

Daniel looked at the floor.

Lucía stared at the doorway.

Nobody seemed eager to be first.

Finally, Gabriel pushed the door open.

The room was larger than he expected.

Rows of chairs faced a wooden casket surrounded by white roses. Candles flickered quietly around the room, their flames casting faint shadows against the walls.

Near the front stood a large photograph.

Gabriel froze.

It was a picture of Sofia.

A younger Sofia.

One he had never seen before.

She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

She was smiling.

Not the polite smile people wore for cameras.

Not the forced smile politicians practised.

A genuine smile.

The kind that reached her eyes.

Gabriel stared at it longer than he intended.

Something about it felt wrong.

Not because the photograph itself was strange.

But because he had never imagined his mother looking happy.

Every image he carried of her came from newspapers.

Courtrooms.

Prison records.

Mugshots.

He had never once considered that she had once been young.

That she had once laughed.

That she had once been loved.

Lucía moved first.

Slowly, she approached the casket.

The others followed.

Gabriel wasn't prepared for what he saw.

The woman lying inside looked nothing like the monster he had spent twenty-two years imagining.

She looked tired.

Small.

Fragile.

Age had softened her features.

Silver strands ran through her dark hair.

Her hands rested peacefully across her chest.

For a long moment, Gabriel simply stared.

Waiting.

Waiting for anger.

Waiting for resentment.

Waiting for something.

Instead, he felt an unexpected emptiness.

This woman had given birth to him.

She had carried him for nine months.

She had watched him take his first steps.

She had probably kissed scraped knees and comforted childhood fears.

And yet, standing there now, she felt like a stranger.

The realization unsettled him.

Beside him, Lucía quietly began to cry.

She didn't sob.

She didn't make a scene.

Tears simply slid down her cheeks as she stared into the coffin.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably.

Mateo looked away entirely.

Nobody knew how to comfort her.

The truth was that none of them knew how to comfort themselves.

After several minutes, visitors began arriving.

At first, there were only a few.

An elderly couple.

A priest.

A middle-aged woman carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Then more followed.

Not many.

But enough to surprise Gabriel.

He watched people enter the room, approach the coffin, cross themselves, whisper prayers, and leave flowers beside Sofia's photograph.

Most stayed only a few minutes.

Some remained longer.

A few cried openly.

Gabriel found himself studying their faces.

Why were they here?

Why would anyone mourn a woman convicted of murder?

The answer arrived sooner than he expected.

An elderly woman approached Lucía.

She looked to be in her seventies, her grey hair tucked neatly beneath a black veil.

For a moment, she simply stared at Sofia's photograph.

Then she smiled sadly.

"She was beautiful."

Lucía nodded politely.

The woman reached out and squeezed her hand.

"Your mother helped me when my husband died."

Lucía blinked.

"What?"

The woman smiled faintly.

"I had three children and no money. Most people avoided me."

Her gaze drifted toward the coffin.

"But not your mother."

Lucía remained silent.

The woman continued.

"She brought food every week for almost six months."

Gabriel looked up.

That didn't sound right.

Or rather, it didn't sound like the woman he knew.

The woman he knew was a murderer.

The woman she described sounded entirely different.

More visitors came.

With every conversation, the contradiction grew.

"Your mother volunteered at the church."

"She helped teach reading classes."

"She was always kind."

"She never turned anyone away."

Gabriel listened quietly.

Story after story.

Memory after memory.

None of them matched the image he had spent decades carrying.

As evening deepened, the room filled with the soft murmur of conversation.

Candles flickered.

Rain tapped gently against the windows.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, doubt began to settle among the siblings.

It started with Lucía.

Gabriel noticed her listening carefully to every visitor.

Then Daniel began paying attention.

Even Mateo stopped rolling his eyes.

By the time the final guests arrived, nobody was speaking anymore.

They were simply listening.

Listening to stories about a woman they thought they knew.

A woman who suddenly seemed unfamiliar.

Late into the evening, after most visitors had gone home, Lucía remained seated near the coffin.

The room had grown quiet again.

The rain outside had stopped.

Only the occasional crackle of candle flames disturbed the silence.

Lucía stared at her mother's face.

"I don't understand."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Nobody answered.

She swallowed hard.

"Why does everybody remember her differently than we do?"

The question settled heavily over the room.

Because none of them had an answer.

Gabriel looked toward the coffin once more.

For years, he had believed there were only two victims in his family's story.

His father.

And the children left behind.

Now, for the first time, he found himself wondering whether there had been a third.

And that thought frightened him more than he cared to admit.