The rainy season gave way to gentle sunlight, painting the world anew with vibrant greens and the heavy scent of wet earth. In San Alejo, life returned to its slow, steady rhythm — fields to plow, fish to catch, and prayers to offer.
Maria sat beneath the great mango tree near the edge of the town plaza, her hands busy mending a torn hem. Around her, children laughed and played, chasing each other with shrill cries, while older women haggled at nearby stalls. It was the ordinary hum of life — familiar, safe.
And yet Maria felt a restlessness inside her, as though she were waiting for something she could not name.
She was not alone for long. Clara dropped down beside her, scattering a few stray chickens.
"You've been strange lately," Clara said, watching her with keen eyes.
Maria smiled faintly, threading her needle. "Strange? How so?"
"You sigh like a widow and blush at nothing." Clara leaned in, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't think I haven't noticed. It's him, isn't it? The friar?"
Maria stiffened. "Clara, please—"
"You can tell me," Clara insisted, grinning. "I've seen the way you look at him. Like a maiden in a romance tale."
"I don't!" Maria protested, cheeks burning.
"You do," Clara said, laughing. "But don't worry. Every girl in San Alejo talks about him. They say he's handsome enough to be a prince from the old stories. Even old Doña Carmen said he was 'blessed with a pleasing face.'"
Maria gave a nervous, embarrassed laugh. "He's a man of God."
Clara shrugged. "Man or not, he still has a face. And eyes. And a voice that could charm the bark off a tree."
Maria said nothing, focusing fiercely on her sewing, but her heart thundered all the same.
It was foolish to nurture such feelings. Foolish and dangerous. And yet they bloomed inside her with the reckless persistence of wildflowers after rain.
She looked up at the branches swaying overhead. Beyond the plaza, the convent loomed — quiet, solemn, unapproachable. But not him. Father Alonzo seemed... different. More real than the stone and stained glass. More reachable.
Or perhaps it was only a trick of her heart.
Days later, Maria found herself walking home from the river, balancing a basket of laundered clothes on her hip. The air was thick and fragrant with the scent of wet leaves. Clouds bunched over the distant mountains, promising another downpour by nightfall.
She did not hear the approaching horse until it was nearly upon her.
"Señorita Maria." The voice, unmistakable and smooth, made her turn.
Father Alonzo sat astride a chestnut mare, his robes tucked neatly over the saddle. He reined in beside her, offering a small, courteous bow of his head.
"Good afternoon, Father," Maria said, dipping into a quick curtsy, nearly upsetting her basket.
He dismounted in a swift, practiced motion and took the basket from her arms before she could protest.
"Allow me," he said with an easy smile.
"Father, you don't have to—" she began, flustered.
"But I want to," he said, voice low.
They walked side by side along the dirt path, and Maria could barely keep her eyes forward. She was painfully aware of every step, every breath between them.
"You are diligent," he said, glancing at the neatly folded linens. "A virtue often overlooked."
Maria flushed. "It's nothing, Father. Every girl does her part."
"Still," he said thoughtfully, "there is something admirable in small duties done with care. It is often the small things, Maria, that reveal the greatness of a soul."
The way he said her name — not with indifference, not with disdain — made something twist warmly inside her chest.
"You... are kind to say so," she whispered.
"I only speak the truth," he said, smiling.
For a while they walked in comfortable silence, save for the soft clop of the horse's hooves behind them. The fields stretched wide on either side, golden with ripening rice. Birds darted overhead, flashing white against the blue sky.
"Tell me," Alonzo said after a moment, "what do you dream of?"
Maria blinked. "Dream?"
"Yes. What does your heart long for?"
No one had ever asked her that before. Not her parents, not the village women, not even Clara. Dreams were for rich folk, or for children who did not know better.
"I don't know," Maria said honestly. "A good life, I suppose. To be happy. To be... loved."
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth, but Alonzo did not laugh. He only looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"Simple dreams," he said. "Yet not so simple to find."
They reached the cluster of houses at the edge of town. Maria stopped, suddenly shy.
"Thank you for helping me, Father," she said, taking the basket from him.
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. Then he simply bowed slightly and turned back toward the path.
"Be well, Maria," he said over his shoulder.
She watched him go until he disappeared among the trees, heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might burst from her chest.
That night, Maria sat by the window, staring out at the rain-soaked world.
She pressed her fingertips lightly to her lips, remembering the soft cadence of his voice, the way he had looked at her — not as a servant or a subject, but as something... more.
She knew it was dangerous to think this way. The friars were powerful, and though Alonzo was kind, he was still one of them. A man of influence, bound to the Church.
But the seed had been planted.
Maria closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she did not truly mean.
"Forgive me, Lord," she murmured. "But I cannot help my heart."
Outside, the rain whispered against the earth, steady and relentless.
Inside, Maria's heart beat a slow, dangerous rhythm — one that even prayers could not silence.