Chapter 7 - The Ribbon and the Glass
By the following summer, Elena had begun to bloom. Her laughter returned, bright and unforced, and she spent her days painting vibrant landscapes that she sold to local galleries. I allowed myself to believe the war was finally over.
I was dead wrong.
It was a bitter, icy afternoon when I returned from the local supply store. As I walked up the gravel driveway, my eyes caught a sharp contrast against the weathered wooden railing of the porch.
A small velvet box was tied to the post with a blood-red ribbon.
My military instincts flared instantly. I dropped my tool bag without making a sound, drew my sidearm from beneath my coat, and approached the porch with every muscle tense.
I cut the ribbon with my pocket knife and opened the box.
Inside lay my Swiss watch—the exact same timepiece Ricardo had worn, its glass face meticulously repaired, polished, and ticking softly.
Beneath the cushion was a handwritten note:
"Steel bars only hold men who can't afford the keys, big brother."
An icy wave of adrenaline flooded my veins.
I kicked the front door open, clearing the entryway with my firearm raised.
"Elena!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the house.
Elena walked out of her studio holding a paintbrush, blinking in utter shock.
"Lucas? What happened?"
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"Pack a bag," I commanded, locking the deadbolts behind me.
"We're leaving right now."
