Mercedes saw the hand. On the palm, there was a deep, round scar. Mercedes' heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be. Was she hallucinating from the cold? Or was she already dead? "No… I'm nobody… I'm just an old burden…" she murmured, repeating her son-in-law's words.
The man took Mercedes's icy hands in his own. The warmth he transmitted was immediate, coursing through her veins like liquid fire, healing, thawing. "Mercedes Álvarez," he said, pronouncing her name as if it were the most precious thing in the universe. "To the world you may be invisible, but to me, you are royalty. You are not a burden. You are my daughter."
Mercedes burst into tears, but this time it was a different kind of crying. A cry of relief, like someone who has carried a mountain and suddenly it's lifted from her shoulders. "Lord... they threw me out... my own daughter left me on the street... I was a good mother, I swear..." "I know," said Jesus, because she knew in her soul that it was Him. "I saw every sacrifice. I saw when you went without bread to give it to her. And I also saw what happened today."
Jesus' expression changed slightly. His eyes showed a terrible seriousness, not directed at her, but at injustice. "Listen to me carefully, Mercedes. The man who humiliated you thinks he has power because he has money. But he has built his house on sand. His pride will be his downfall." "What will happen?" she asked, trembling. "You reap what you sow. And he has sown winds of cruelty. The storm will soon come for him. But you…" Jesus smiled at her, and that smile illuminated the gray park. "You will be restored."
"Restored? But I have nothing..." "You have faith. And that is the most valuable currency in heaven. Tomorrow, before the clock strikes twelve, you will receive a call. Don't be afraid. Accept what they give you. It is the harvest of a seed of kindness you planted twenty years ago and had forgotten." "Twenty years ago?" "Don Esteban Romero," said Jesus. "Do you remember him?"
