None with a snake.
That, as Clara later confessed, she had thrown it into the river the same night as the crime.
The judicial review was swift only because the scandal left no room for anything else. The press found out. Human rights organizations intervened. The story of a woman nearly executed for a crime she didn’t commit became impossible to sweep under the institutional rug.
Ramira was exonerated thirty-eight days later.
Thirty-eight days that, compared to five years, seemed like nothing and eternity at the same time.
The day he got out, the prison smelled the same.
Same walls.
Same fence.
Same faded sky over the courtyard.
But she was no longer the same woman who had entered.
She wore the simple clothes a civil organization had provided, her hair was shorter, her body thinner, and her eyes reflected an age that wasn’t listed on her papers. Salomé waited for her outside, holding hands with prosecutor Lucía Serrano, who ended up becoming the only person in the system willing to look into the matter.
When the gate opened, Ramira walked slowly.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t scream.
She looked like a woman emerging from underwater after learning to breathe there.
Salome did run.
This time, no one could stop her.
She crashed into her mother with all the force of eight years, pent-up fear and undiminished love. Ramira fell to her knees to receive her, embracing her as if that could mend the broken time.
“It’s over,” the girl whispered.
Ramira closed her eyes.
—No, my love. It’s just beginning.
And it was true.
Because being free didn’t bring back what was lost.
She didn’t give back birthdays.
Nor the baby teeth that fell out without a mother.
Nor Salomé’s nightmares under the roof of an aunt who bought silence with sweets.
Nor Ramira’s nights talking to herself in a cell so as not to forget the tone of her daughter’s voice.
Freedom doesn’t cure.
