I woke up with a dull ache in my arm. The culprit was Isabela, who at some point in the night had turned over and placed her head on my arm, her hand and foot draped over my body as if I were a long pillow.
She was still deeply asleep—and no wonder. I had forgotten to close the window, and it already showed the distinguishable dimness of dawn. Despite having slept late last night, my body still remembered to wake up at the same time the roosters started crowing.
I gently removed her hand and foot. As I always did every morning, I walked to the window for a whiff of the fresh morning air, and to rest my newly woken eyes on the beauty of the paradise I had found myself in.
But I was forgetting something. It slowly came back to me when I heard a faint murmur as I neared the window. This was not the time to hear such a sound—if there were noises, it would normally be the creaking of wheels or the faint voices of those who had woken early to fetch water.
