Your phone buzzes once in your coat pocket.
Grace.
Location received. Marcus nearby.
Nearby.
You breathe.
At the overlook, the wind is sharper than expected.
Tourists cluster near the main railing, taking photos and laughing. A family with two small children eats sandwiches at a picnic table. A group of hikers studies a trail map.
Lucía frowns.
“It’s crowded.”
You almost smile.
Not part of her plan.
Esteban points toward a narrow trail beyond the parking area.
“There’s another viewpoint about half a mile in. Much quieter.”
Of course there is.
Lucía turns to you. “Can you walk that far, Mom?”
The old insult hidden inside concern.
You look at Arturo.
He nods faintly.
“I can walk,” you say.
The trail narrows quickly, winding through trees and uneven rock. The crowd noise fades behind you. Leaves crunch under your shoes. The cliff edge appears and disappears through gaps in the trees, beautiful and terrible.
You remember Diego.
Twenty years old.
Laughing.
Alive.
Then gone.
You almost cannot keep walking.
Arturo feels it and squeezes your hand.
Lucía walks ahead with Esteban.
You hear her whisper something.
You cannot make it out.
But the recorder might.
The second overlook has no railing.
Just a flat shelf of stone opening toward the valley. Wind pushes against your coat. Far below, rocks and trees blur together.
Lucía spreads a blanket near the edge.
Too close.
You stay back.
She notices.
“Mom, come look at the view.”
“I can see it from here.”
“Don’t be scared.”
Arturo’s voice is quiet. “Elena doesn’t like edges.”
