The sun was beginning to set behind the hills when the sound of hurried hoofbeats broke the camp’s quiet. You lifted your gaze from the basin where you were washing some cloths, spotting Javier and Charles as they dismounted with heavy movements. Their faces bore the marks of a fight—cuts, bruises, and the exhaustion of a hard day.

Javier, with a noticeable bruise on his forehead and fresh blows on his cheek, stepped toward you. Despite the hardness in his expression, there was something in his eyes that betrayed the pain he was trying to hide.

“Excuse me… could you help me, señorita?” His voice was low, almost as if he didn’t want to bother you, yet firm enough to make it clear that he needed it.

You didn’t talk much with him, but you knew the men in camp well. Pride weighed more than pain for them, and asking for help was never easy.

Without a word, you grabbed a clean cloth, dampened it with fresh water, and nodded, motioning for him to sit. Outside, crickets had begun their nightly song as the wind gently rustled the leaves in the trees.