A short, older woman with grey hair pulled back in a neat bun stood in the entryway.

She wore a soft wool cardigan and had a look of deep concern on her face.

“Come in, come in out of the damp,” she said, her voice warm and comforting.

“Mrs. Alvarez, this is Emily,” Richard said as we stepped into the grand, tiled foyer.

“Oh, you poor things,” Mrs. Alvarez murmured, looking at my bruised wrist and the girls’ tired faces.

She immediately took Olivia and Grace by the hands.

“I have hot chicken soup on the stove, and the guest rooms are ready,” she said.

The smell of roasted vegetables and savory broth drifted from the hallway.

My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that we hadn’t eaten since morning.

“Thank you,” I said, my throat tight with emotion.

Mrs. Alvarez led us down a hallway lined with landscape paintings to a bright, cozy kitchen.

A wooden table was set with five bowls and a basket of warm bread.

“Sit, please,” she said, gently guiding Olivia and Grace into the chairs.