The wind howled against the tower, not a gentle breeze but a cold roar that licked the glass hundreds of meters above Madrid, where Elena hung suspended from a thin, overworked harness.
The harness creaked softly, a fragile sound swallowed by the immensity of the city beneath her boots, the Torre Imperio de la Vega rising like a gigantic mirror with Elena a tiny moving stain.
Strapped to her chest, Mateo, only one year old, slept peacefully, his warm cheek resting against her collarbone, his soft breathing forming a steady rhythm that matched her heartbeat, anchoring them both above the empty air.
That rhythm was his anchor and her fuel, the invisible engine that pushed her exhausted body to keep working despite aching shoulders, frozen fingers, and the darkness bruising the fragile skin beneath her eyes.
Her expert hands gripped the safety belt and the polisher, every slow, careful swipe against the glass a small victory, a titanic effort to turn labor into rent, food, and diapers.
The deep dark circles beneath Elena’s eyes traced the map of countless sleepless nights, but her gaze still burned with an unyielding light that refused to dim, the fierce brightness of maternal love.
For you, my little one, I will do the impossible, she repeated silently, her private mantra woven into every breath, every movement, every hour spent dangling between sky and pavement.
Below them sprawled the city, all noise, honking, crowds, and indifference, people like ants hurrying nowhere; above, only Elena, Mateo, the sky, and the fragile promise of one more paid shift.
Her entire existence hung from a steel cable, where fear and strength mingled in the metal’s cold bite, reminding her that survival sometimes meant trusting knots more than people.
Behind that same glass, inside an office wrapped in polished marble and blind opulence, stood Alejandro de la Vega, owner of the tower and prisoner of a profound, glittering emptiness.
He looked out over Madrid without truly seeing it, boredom his constant companion, his days stuffed with hollow meetings, stagnant wealth, and conversations that never touched anything resembling real life.
Then it happened: a flare of sunlight, a reflection, a sudden flash across the glass, and within that brightness he saw a silhouette, a suspended figure moving methodically across the windows.
Alejandro stepped closer, frowning, intrigued despite himself, his light eyes meeting Elena’s for a fleeting second, but what truly froze his blood was the small bundle strapped to her harness.
A baby.
A baby cleaning skyscraper windows.
At that unbearable height.
The image crashed into him with brutal force, a collision of tenderness and cruelty; she risked everything for what was real, while he suffocated slowly beneath layers of privilege and emptiness.
It wasn’t pity that struck him, but recognition, a raw pang of humanity he hadn’t felt in years, sharpened when the baby stirred and gave a fleeting, drowsy smile through the glass.
That tiny smile was a lighthouse in a sea of indifference, illuminating how abnormal his normal had become, how distorted his sense of what mattered truly was.
This isn’t normal, he realized, throat turning dry, understanding suddenly that his life until that exact moment had been a carefully polished illusion with no anchor.
Outside, Elena paused, unaware of the man watching, and pressed her palm gently against the glass, as if trying to touch the soul of the city far beneath her.
Mateo woke with a soft murmur, then laughed, imitating his mother’s gesture, patting the glass with tiny hands that left foggy prints over the immaculate surface.
Two hands touched the same pane from one side: one strong and calloused, forged by labor; the other small and pure, connected by invisible love, divided by transparent, unforgiving glass.
For Alejandro, the sight was an emotional tsunami, life in its most elemental form, crashing against the pristine aquarium that had become his golden, air-conditioned cage.
Elena leaned back, trembling slightly, unaware of the storm she had unleashed; the image of her and Mateo burned itself permanently into Alejandro’s memory.
“We need to find out who that woman is,” he said into the intercom, his voice firmer than usual, carrying a strange new purpose that startled even him.
Night fell, turning skyscrapers into glittering beacons above neighborhoods sinking slowly into shadows, where lights flickered out early because bills outran wages.
Mateo slept soundly, curled against Elena’s chest in their cramped apartment, while she sat awake, exhausted, thinking about the vast chasm between her world and that shining tower above.
One day, my love, we won’t have to look up from so far away, she promised silently, brushing Mateo’s hair away from his forehead with trembling, determined fingers.
High in his luxury attic, Alejandro was not sleeping either; a detailed dossier lay open on his desk, bearing the name Elena Mendoza, twenty-eight years old, single mother.
He read about precarious jobs, cleaning shifts, food deliveries, and night work; he saw the absence of the father listed as a blank line, a silent accusation on every page.
Something didn’t add up, a missing piece scratching at his mind, until he found it buried inside a catering report attached to an old corporate event.
A blurry photograph showed Ricardo laughing at a gala while Elena stood in the background, blurred, serving drinks with a tray balanced carefully on one aching arm.
The resemblance between Mateo’s features and Ricardo’s was painfully obvious in Alejandro’s memory, a genetic echo he could no longer ignore.
“It can’t be,” Alejandro murmured, though the evidence piled like stones on his chest, making denial feel ridiculous and cowardly.
Soon the truth prevailed: the dates, the event, the reports, the gossip; everything aligned until there was only one conclusion.
Mateo’s father was Ricardo.
The revelation slammed into Alejandro like a punch, revealing the vileness of his cousin’s actions and the hypocrisy festering within their polished, respected family.
This is a blatant injustice, he thought, anger burning through the numbness; Ricardo had abandoned that woman and that child while enjoying the luxury their surname provided.
“Ricardo, I swear this won’t end like this,” Alejandro whispered, his voice transformed into a vow carved quietly into the night.
Days later, Elena stood in the imposing lobby of the tower, invited to an interview with Alejandro himself, nerves coiling in her stomach but dignity keeping her posture straight.
She entered his office, where the air felt strangely tense; Alejandro studied her, and his gaze held not curiosity or condescension but a depth that immediately unsettled her
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