Daily Writing Challenge, Day 6

Magda glanced through door of her son’s office. His mansion, nestled in the mountains that surrounded Huerto Viejo, was one of the few places she didn’t need to lean down to enter rooms. He was only a few inches shorter than her, and he’d designed the mansion with that in mind.

It was a nice place, as things went. Saúlito’s old friend, Ambrosio, used to tease him about his ostentatious sense of style. She’d spoken to him about the implications of Ambrosio’s comments, but Saúl had defended him, until he could no longer.

Regardless, Magda’s issue with the mansion was the same as with any fixed housing: too small. Anything with walls blocking the wind was by definition too small, cramped, and exhausting.

“Mihijo?” Magda called, to no answer. Hands in her pockets, she glanced around, mildly uncertain.

The office was empty, or as empty as any room could be. Such crowded things. Piled high with decorations and golden ornaments, a bookshelf with his fanciest books, the ones about the size of a human’s forearms with engraved wooden covers.

On his desk, however, was something new. Or rather, something old. Something of Magda’s. She whistled lowly.

For all her years playing the tiple, Magda had never been able to keep one in good condition. Things happen, she would say, with a grin and shrug, and most humans would be okay with that. Shy of specific moments, they never did tend to question her much. Her husband and son, however, were fond of saying things happened because she did them.

Originally written 4.5.2024