For the first time in years, I dreamed of something other than blood and vengeance.
The air was warm, scented with freshly cut grass and the sweetness of orange blossoms. The sky stretched wide and golden, kissed by the beautiful colors of the setting sun.
I stood outside a house, which for some reason, I knew was my house. It was a beautiful villa in the countryside, surrounded by rolling fields and swaying cypress trees.
And there, just a few steps away, were two children.
A little boy, about seven, with golden brown hair and my wolfish grin. He was chasing after a girl with long, flowing hair the color of María José's.
She laughed, shrieking with delight as she dodged him, her tiny feet kicking up dust as she ran in circles around a small stone fountain.
"Got you!" the boy cried, tackling her.
They tumbled into the grass, giggling, before collapsing in a heap and shaking with laughter.
