The locked room stayed in your mind longer than the rest of the mansion.
You had cleaned rich houses before, but this one felt different. It did not feel lived in. It felt preserved, like someone had taken a life, polished it, covered it with glass, and ordered everyone not to breathe too close.
Mrs. Herrera walked ahead of you with a folder pressed against her chest.
“You do not ask personal questions,” she said. “You do not enter restricted rooms. You do not move photographs. You do not touch medication unless instructed. You do not speak to Mr. Cárdenas unless he speaks first.”
You nodded.
Rules did not scare you.
People who needed that many rules usually did.
On your first day, you learned the house was beautiful in the saddest possible way. Marble floors, glass walls, art worth more than the building where your grandmother lived, and not one sound of laughter anywhere. Even the kitchen staff spoke softly, as if grief might hear them.
Rodrigo Cárdenas came downstairs at 7:20 p.m.
You heard him before you saw him: slow steps, no hurry, no warmth. He wore a dark suit without a tie and had the face of a man who had not slept properly in years. Everyone in the kitchen straightened the moment he entered.
You did too.
He did not look at you at first.
He poured himself water, took one sip, and set the glass down untouched.
