I woke up gasping.

The room was dark. The air conditioner was humming its artificial tune.

I sat up, sweat drenching my t-shirt. I looked around the room. The Casa del Diseñador. The heavy curtains. The silence.

Cata was sleeping beside me.

I looked at her hands—the same hands that had guided the pen ten years ago.

She hadn't saved me because she loved me. She had saved me because she saw a building that was about to collapse, and she couldn't resist the urge to shore it up. She liked fixing things. She liked owning things.

I got out of bed and walked to the window. I pushed the heavy curtain aside.

Outside, the Zona Colonial was sleeping. Somewhere out there, in a shop that smelled of ink, was a woman who didn't want to be fixed.

I pressed my forehead against the glass.

I signed, I thought. But contracts can be broken.