The day after Christmas at Casa de los Niños was a study in contented chaos. The frantic energy of the holiday had subsided, replaced by a lazy, sun-drenched languor that seemed to wrap itself around the old stone buildings like a warm embrace.
In the courtyard, the younger children were scattered about like colorful confetti, engrossed in their new toys, their laughter a gentle, happy murmur that filled the air with the music of childhood joy.
The older children, meanwhile, were gathered in small, comfortable groups under the shade of the ancient olive tree, talking, reading, and enjoying the last precious days of the winter break before the inevitable return to the structured routine of school.
Mateo sat on the worn stone steps of the main building, a book open in his lap, though his eyes were not on the page.
