The village hadn’t changed much since he had left for the army. The same old eucalyptus trees lined the pathway that led to his house. Their rustling leaves created a familiar symphony, whispering secrets only the wind and trees knew.

As he approached his home, the sight of the pigsty in the backyard stood out like an unwelcome shadow. It was then that he heard the muffled cries, and his heart skipped a beat. Quickening his pace, Tomás reached the pigsty and stopped dead in his tracks.

There was Alma, his little girl, curled up in the hay, her face streaked with tears. The sight was a dagger to his heart, sharper than any weapon he had ever faced in battle. All the strength and stoicism he had built up over the years seemed to crumble in an instant.