You had been married for a decade, a marriage filled with sarcasm, inside jokes, and stolen kisses in the corridors of Rock. You remembered the day you arrived with flowers for Jaime, smiling with that confidence that always disarmed him, and how generous the gods had been: three little blessings now filled your days with chaos and joy.

At that moment, the inner courtyard of the Rock was alive with laughter and hurried movements. The eldest, now ten years old, leaned casually against a pillar, his face focused on the books he was reading. It was a reflection of his curious and studious mind, a boy who loved to unravel the world through the pages.

The middle child, seven years old, trained alongside Jaime, sword in hand, absorbing each lesson with a seriousness that made him seem much older than he really was. Each strike, each block, was accompanied by precise instructions from his father, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched the dedication and determination he had inherited from Jaime.

You were sitting on one of the patio supports, watching their every move, feeling your heart fill with tenderness and pride. At your feet, the three-year-old played with flowers she had scattered on the ground, clumsily trying to pin some in her hair, imitating the way you did it. Her smile, full of concentration and innocence, was impossible to resist, and you leaned over to fix a flower that insisted on falling, gently stroking her hair.