BENEATH THE SURGEON’S BLADE

If only he could heal this, Marcus thought bitterly. He was a surgeon renowned for his expertise, a man whose hands had performed miracles in operating rooms. His colleagues spoke of him with reverence, marveling at his precision and skill. But none of that mattered here. The wounds he tended in his profession were tangible—visible cuts that could be sutured, broken bones that could be set. The wound inside him, however, was something no scalpel could mend. It was deep and unrelenting, a mix of grief, guilt, and longing that stemmed from memories too painful to dwell on. As much as Marcus wanted to believe that time could heal all wounds, he doubted it could ever touch the one etched in his heart.“Dad?” Marcus’s voice was barely audible, as if even speaking louder would disturb the fragile silence surrounding the man sitting under the acacia tree.His father, unmoving, kept his gaze fixed on some distant point, his expression a blend of detachment and tranquility. The sight tugged pa

“Is that so?” she said with a thoughtful nod. “Okay then, I won’t make you coffee. You might have trouble sleeping later.” With a decisive motion, she returned the cup she’d been holding back into the cupboard. Her understanding demeanor reminded Marcus of how supportive his parents had always been, encouraging him to pursue his ambitions without hesitation. His gaze drifted back to his laptop screen as he thought about why he worked so hard. Graduating with a degree in BS Biology was just the first step on a long journey. His goal wasn’t just to finish school—it was to continue to medical school and eventually specialize as a cardiothoracic surgeon. It was a lofty ambition, requiring years of intense study and rigorous training, but Marcus welcomed the challenge. In ten years, he envisioned himself in a bustling hospital, performing life-saving surgeries and making a tangible difference in people’s lives. The thought filled him with purpose, making every late night and sacrifice

Marcus took the last bite of the sandwich Juliana had lovingly prepared for him. The flavors were simple yet comforting, a testament to his mother’s knack for knowing exactly what he liked. He couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction as he wiped his lips with a napkin. It wasn’t just the taste that brought a sense of warmth to his chest; it was the thought behind the gesture. It was moments like these that reminded him of how much his mother cared for him in the smallest yet most meaningful ways. Across the table, Juliana’s gaze lingered on her son, her eyes shimmering with affection and pride. She watched his every move with an expression that only a mother could wear—a mixture of tenderness, curiosity, and quiet joy. Her smile never wavered, as though she found pure delight in simply being present in this small but intimate moment. For Marcus, this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. His mother had always looked at him like this, her eyes full of unspoken love and admiration. Ov

It was late afternoon, and the soft glow of the setting sun filtered through the large windows of Salvador Montemayor's office, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. Salvador, the former Congressman of the third district of Mercedes, sat at his desk, hands clasped together as he stared out at the peaceful view of the garden outside. Though he had left politics behind years ago, his mind often wandered back to those heady days of power, the speeches, the debates, the promises.At eighty-five years old, he was well aware that time was no longer on his side, yet compared to many people his age, he felt remarkably strong. His body still had some vigor left in it, though his breathing would sometimes betray him—shortness of breath that he attributed to his advancing years. It was nothing to be overly concerned about, he assured himself. Perhaps it was the toll of old age, perhaps it was simply the inevitable decline of his physical form. Still, despite these minor signs of his aging, h

“My granddaughter is coming home tomorrow, Eva. I want you to prepare all her favorite dishes. Make sure everything is in order—for Celeste,” Salvador instructed Eva that morning as he ate his breakfast. The old man’s voice carried a certain eagerness, a rare spark that had been absent in recent years. His once powerful presence had softened with age, but when he spoke of Celeste, a different kind of energy seemed to stir within him. The weight of the years, the burdens of his past, all seemed momentarily lifted at the thought of his granddaughter returning home. There was a deep fondness in the way he uttered her name, a love so unwavering that even time could not erode it. Eva simply nodded at everything Salvador said and continued tending to him as she always did. She took joy in serving him, not out of mere duty but out of something deeper—an affection that had been cultivated over the years. She had been by his side for so long, witnessing the many facets of the man who now sat