Rosalba was sitting in the shade of the doorway, making lace. At first her fingers were slow and clumsy, but after a while they caught the rhythm and seemed to work of their own accord, the delicate lace tumbling onto the cushion in a froth of white. As her fingers took over, she allowed her mind to wander. This lace was exactly the same pattern as the lace that her grandmother and she had made for her own wedding dress all those years ago. She remembered her grandmother teaching her how to do the delicate work, sitting together in a doorway almost opposite to the one she was sitting in now. And as she worked, she thought about Carlos.
It had been very strange, the way it had happened. One minute, it seemed, Carlos had just been one more little boy running barefoot in the street and the n
