It was a key. A simple, unremarkable key, worn around the edges. Calderon extended it toward me, his expression unreadable.
“There’s an apartment,” he said. “It’s not much, but it’s warm, and it’s yours for as long as you need.”
Tears burned my eyes. “I—I can’t take this.”
“You can,” he insisted gently. “It belonged to my mother. She passed last year. I’ve been meaning to sell it, but—I think she’d want me to do this.” He glanced down at Mateo, still nestled against his chest. “Take it. Get your babies inside. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
A sob escaped me as I reached for the key, my hands shaking. Luna lifted her head, watching, hope flickering in her eyes.
That night, we stepped into a small but cozy apartment. The heat worked. The walls stood strong. It wasn’t home—not yet—but it was shelter. It was safety. And in the darkness of our loss, it was proof that kindness still existed.