Sara Ikari Rodriguez
He came back after dark.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just walked in like the weight of the world had followed him home.
His coat was dusted with street grit. His jaw was tense. His hands, shoved into his pockets, were shaking.
But not with cold.
With something heavier.
I stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, heart already racing.
He looked at me for a second — really looked — and then turned toward the hallway like he could outrun the question I’d been
holding in all day.
“Matio,” I said quietly.
He paused.
“I’m not asking if you found anything.”
He didn’t turn.
“I’m asking what you did.”
He stayed still for a long time. Too long.
I stepped forward. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. And you think I can’t see the violence you’re tr
