She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and walked to the main entrance. Through the gap between the two iron lions, she saw a young woman, drenched and shivering, clutching a baby to her chest.

Before dawn, the rain stopped. The sky cleared into a pale pink, and the sun rose slowly over Calle de los Suspiros. When Elena woke up, she walked to the bedroom window and looked out. The iron butterflies seemed to glow in the early light, and for a moment, she could have sworn one of them moved—just a flutter, as if waking from a long sleep.

“Good morning, lions,” she would say, touching the mane of the left lion, which she called Valor, and the right, which she called Paz.