Ramiro Valverde walked through the main hallway of his mansion as if he were passing through an empty museum. Flawless marble, crystal chandeliers, paintings by famous painters hanging on walls that seemed as lifeless as he was. Everything glittered, but nothing had any life. His fortune had taken him far, investments, buildings, trips, luxuries.
But what he had never been able to buy was what he most desired: his children’s sight. Leo and Bruno, 8-year-old twins, had been born blind. Doctors had initially said it was temporary blindness, something that could be improved with therapies, experimental surgeries, and expensive treatments abroad. Ramiro had spent millions on each attempt.
He had signed desperate documents, flown with them from country to country in search of an answer. The result was always the same: hope, disappointment, silence. The mansion had become a silent space. The twins spent their days with private tutors who taught them brae, motor exercises, and adapted games, but the overwhelming feeling was one of confinement. The children didn’t laugh like other children.
They didn’t run through the hallways, they weren’t surprised by the color of a toy, or point at anything. The house lacked children’s cries, innocent questions, it lacked color. Ramiro, standing in front of the windows, looked out at the garden illuminated by the morning sun.
Everything was covered in bright green, but the only thing that struck him was the harsh contrast. His children would never be able to see that. At that moment, he heard the footsteps of his personal assistant, Marta, approaching. “Mr. Valverde,” she said with practiced respect, “the new nanny has arrived.” Ramiro barely turned his head. Four had already passed in less than two years.
They all left, exhausted or frustrated. “They don’t know how to handle them,” they said. “It’s too difficult.” And in part, he didn’t blame them. Let her in. The door opened and Lucía appeared, a young woman with a plain face, dark hair tied back in a braid, and eyes that seemed to observe everything with unusual calm.
She wasn’t dressed like the previous nannies, who arrived impeccably dressed in expensive suits. She wore a simple dress, comfortable shoes, and a worn bag slung over her shoulder. Ramiro looked her up and down coldly. “So you’re the one recommended by the foundation? Yes, Mr. Valverde Lucía Moreno.”
I’ve worked with children with sensory disabilities,” she replied firmly, without hesitation. Ramiro narrowed his eyes. “I’m warning you something right now. I don’t expect miracles. My children don’t need playground equipment to entertain them. They need discipline, structure, order. If you’re looking to fill them with hope, you can leave right now.”
Lucía held his gaze. “I’m not trying to give you false hopes, Mr. Valverde, but I do believe your children can learn to see things differently.” The silence that followed was awkward. Marta blinked in surprise. No one usually contradicted a millionaire in his own home. Ramiro, hardened, gave a short, dry laugh.
Look, don’t you understand what the word blindness means? Lucía didn’t back down. Blindness means that you can’t see with your eyes, but the world doesn’t enter only through your eyes, sir. You also see with your skin, with your ears, with your sense of smell, with your memory. I don’t promise to cure you. I promise to teach you to discover colors you don’t yet know.
The words hung in the air like a provocation. Ramiro turned toward the window without responding. Minutes later, Marta led her to the wing where the twins were. It was a spacious room with soft rugs and expensive toys stacked in perfect order, almost new, almost untouched. In the center, two children with identical brown hair sat, each with a Braille book on their lap.
Lucía approached slowly, without making unnecessary noises. “Hello,” she said sweetly. “So I’m Lucía.” Leo was the first to turn his head. He had a faint mole next to his right eye that distinguished him from his brother. “Who are you?” he asked, feeling his way through the air with his hands. “Your new nanny. I’m here to be with you.”
Bruno frowned suspiciously. “Nannies always leave. I’m not going to leave that easily,” she replied, smiling. “But you’ll decide if you want me to stay.” They both remained silent, measuring their words. Lucía didn’t touch them, didn’t force them. Instead, she took a small wooden box out of her bag. She opened it, and an intense aroma filled the room.
Do you know what this is? The children sniffed the air. Leo smiled faintly. “Cinnamon, very good.” And now this. He took out another small bag of freshly roasted coffee beans. Bruno recognized it instantly. Coffee. Exactly. Lucía closed the box and looked at them. “For many, coffee is brown, and cinnamon is reddish.”
But for you, what color would this smell be?” The twins looked at each other, confused. No one had ever asked them something like that. “I don’t know,” Bruno said softly. “To me, it smells strong, hot,” he added.
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