After about two hours, Celina’s bedroom was wrapped in a soft half-light. The curtains were partially open, letting in a timid glow that painted the walls in muted tones of melancholy. Celina lay in bed, covered to the waist, her hair loose and slightly tousled. Her vacant stare at the ceiling betrayed the storm inside her that had yet to calm. Sitting beside her, Tatiana adjusted a cool compress on her forehead, tending to her like a wounded sister—not in body, but in soul.

“Sweetheart…” Tatia