The sun hung low over San Alejo, smearing gold across the cobbled streets and tiled roofs. Maria stood by the well near the plaza, hauling up a pail of water with quick, practiced hands. Around her, life bustled as always — vendors cried out for customers, children ran barefoot past the church steps, and the sweet scent of newly baked pan de sal drifted from the bakery.
Yet for Maria, the world had become curiously muffled, like a dream blurred at the edges.
She dared a glance toward the convent. Though she told herself she wasn't looking for anyone, her heart betrayed her, thumping faster at the thought that she might catch a glimpse of him — Father Alonzo.
It had been days since she last exchanged words with the friar, and yet the encounter still weighed heavily upon her. He had smiled at her then — not in the lofty, benevolent manner priests often reserved for their flock, but warmly, almost... familiarly.
Maria shook her head and scolded herself. Foolish. Dangerous. He was a man of God, a foreigner, a friar who belonged to a world far above her own.
She dipped the bucket again into the well, her reflection trembling on the water's surface.
"Maria!" a voice called.
She looked up, startled, to see Clara hurrying toward her, skirts gathered in her fists. Clara was her closest friend since childhood, a spirited girl with bright eyes and a sharper tongue than most dared to wield.
"You're daydreaming again," Clara teased, taking the rope from her hands. "If you keep staring at the convent like that, people will start talking."
Maria flushed. "I was only thinking."
Clara chuckled as she tied off the full bucket. "About Father Alonzo, no doubt."
"Clara!" Maria hissed, scandalized, glancing around to see if anyone heard.
But Clara only grinned. "Relax, Maria. Everyone notices how the new padre speaks to you. He favors you."
Maria's cheeks burned hotter. "He's kind to everyone."
"Maybe," Clara said, shrugging. "But with you, he seems... different."
Maria could not reply. Words tangled in her mouth. She seized the bucket and turned back toward home, leaving Clara laughing behind her.
The days passed in a strange, unbearable haze. Maria tried to keep busy, tried to stay within the safe walls of her home. She sewed; she cleaned; she accompanied her mother to market. And yet no matter how she arranged her days, fate seemed to conspire against her.
At the marketplace, she brushed hands with Father Alonzo as she passed him near the cloth merchants.
At Sunday Mass, when he spoke the sermon, his eyes — she was sure of it — found her among the pews.
Even at the river, where she washed clothes with the other women, she spotted him riding past on horseback, offering a polite nod that left her heart thrashing in her chest.
Each encounter deepened the ache inside her, a yearning she could neither name nor erase.
She hated it.
She hated how easily he unsettled her — how a simple smile, a casual word, could leave her trembling for hours. She hated how she found herself memorizing the timbre of his voice, the faint curl of his hair at his collar, the keen sharpness of his dark eyes.
And yet, even as she fought it, part of her hungered for more.
One afternoon, as rain threatened on the horizon, Maria found herself delivering baskets of food to the convent — a duty her mother often entrusted to her.
She lingered outside the heavy wooden door, gathering courage. Maybe she could leave the basket and go. Maybe she wouldn't have to see him.
But before she could knock, the door swung open.
Father Alonzo stood there, clad in his simple brown robe, a book in one hand. His expression lit up with genuine warmth at the sight of her.
"Señorita Maria," he said, his voice a smooth balm to the humid air. "What a pleasant surprise."
"I—I brought provisions, Father," she stammered, holding out the basket like a shield.
"Ah," he said, accepting it. Their fingers brushed — a fleeting, accidental touch, yet it sent a shiver through her that she could not conceal.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Father Alonzo smiled — gently, almost teasingly. "It seems I often find you in my path these days."
Maria lowered her gaze, mortified. "Forgive me, Father. It's only coincidence."
"Of course," he said, stepping aside to let her pass. "But perhaps providence is at work, no?"
She did not know how to answer that. She barely knew how to breathe.
"I should return," she whispered, backing away.
"Be safe, Maria," he said, watching her go.
As she hurried down the narrow street, basket now empty, Maria clutched her shawl tight around her shoulders, trying to steady her wildly beating heart.
That night, rain drummed against the thatched roof of their modest home. Maria lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the wavering ceiling beams.
She thought of his voice, of the kindness in his smile, the sharpness hidden beneath the softness.
What was she to him? A servant girl? A fleeting amusement? She did not dare hope for more.
And yet, in her heart, an ember had been lit, burning stubbornly against all reason.
Maria closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall.
No good could come of this.
And yet, try as she might, she could not will herself to stop.