CHAPTER 262 — Where Light Is ChosenMía Castell had been working ahead of schedule all week at the hospital where she was completing her residency. She wanted to be like her mother: a wonderful person and an excellent ophthalmologist.It wasn’t too much to dream of. She had worked hard to get where she was, and she had never tried to use her parents’ legacy to get ahead. Sometimes, she attended conferences quietly, as her mother’s assistant. They never drew attention to themselves. Mía listened, absorbed everything, and later put it into practice during her shifts. She was already a doctor, but now she wanted to complete her residency without relying on her mother’s name.She was preparing to go to Canada to specialize with the best. Dr. Hall had insisted, and as soon as she graduated, she would travel with her friends—and with him too.These days, she didn’t feel anxious.But she needed to be there.For her brother.For Milagros, her lifelong friend.She knew that on the day her brot

CHAPTER 264 — Where I Finally Become a Husband (Ayden’s Point of View) I don’t know the exact moment it happened. Maybe it was when the judge, with that monotonous voice that contrasted so sharply with the wild beating of my heart, declared, “You are now legally joined in marriage.” Or maybe it was when Milagros signed the certificate with that firm, decisive handwriting of hers, as if the stroke of the pen were a shield defending our right to love each other before any court in the world. Or maybe it was when she looked at me after the kiss and smiled. It wasn’t a photograph smile. It was tired. Happy. Deeply real. All I know is that, for the first time in my life, I felt something settle completely inside my chest. I was home. There were no endless dances, no wild party. Our celebration had the texture of care and the scent of calm. We danced only a little, just enough to melt into a gentle sway beneath the soft lights. I felt the weight of her body surrendering to mine a

CHAPTER 266 — Returning HomeThe family began to scatter shortly after the wedding, as if the day were breaking into inevitable pieces no one wanted to gather up completely.No one said it out loud, but everyone felt it with painful clarity: staying was hard, but leaving was hard too. Every goodbye carried a small act of resignation.Some headed to Colonia, others to Maldonado, and others back to the countryside. Martina and Elián would be returning to Madrid.They didn’t want to leave so soon.No one did.But Elián’s body set clear limits, the kind that allowed no unnecessary arguments. They had stretched the visit as long as they could, taking every precaution, measuring every step, every rest, every emotion.Even so, they had traveled.They had taken a risk.Martina had cared for him with almost obsessive attention, watching every gesture, every breath. And thank God, Elián’s heart had responded well, as if it too understood how important it was for him to be there.They had taken

CHAPTER 268 — Colors for What’s to Come The grandmothers were happy. Not in a calm, quiet way. It was the kind of happiness that never stays still—the kind that shows up in hurried footsteps around the house, in lists written and rewritten, in phone calls that end too soon because someone remembers one last detail. Nervous laughter. Tiny household arguments that always ended the same way: with a hug, a pat on the back, and a resigned, “Never mind… I’ll handle it.” Isabel and Fabián had taken over the house as if it were a sacred mission. There wasn’t a single corner that hadn’t passed through their hands. The large dining room table was covered with white tablecloths, the chairs pushed to the sides, and the windows thrown open so the afternoon light could flood the room. Pink and blue balloons floated, tied to the chairs. Gift boxes were carefully stacked in one corner, and the air buzzed with that special kind of energy that appears when a family is preparing to celebrate somet

CHAPTER 270 — The Light That Returns Home The auditorium was filled with anticipation for what would happen that night. It was one of those evenings you could feel on your skin, in the shared breath, in the silences that come before something important. The air smelled of wood, delicate perfume, and that faint metallic scent that lingers in medical buildings—a mixture of discipline and hope. Mía Castell sat in the second row, her gown perfectly draped over her shoulders and her cap tilted slightly to one side, as if even on such a solemn day, she refused to lose her sense of self. Her hands rested on her lap, her fingers interlaced with a calm that was really pure self-control. She looked down at her palms, slightly reddened. They were the hands of someone who already knew the coldness of surgical instruments and the warmth of human touch. She had made it this far on her own. Not because of her last name. Not because of the weight of her family history. She had never relied on p