The morning light poured gently over Cartagena, painting the streets in gold and honey. The ocean breathed softly against the old city walls, its rhythm blending with laughter and distant music. Seagulls circled the rooftops, and the scent of fried arepas drifted through the air. It was one of those mornings that seemed to whisper, life is good, keep going.
At the edge of the plaza stood Luz María, the mango seller everyone in the neighborhood knew. Her stall was small, shaded by a bright yellow umbrella that had seen too many summers. She arranged her mangoes in neat little pyramids, each one glistening like a drop of sunlight. She hummed as she worked, a tune her grandmother had taught her when she was a child sitting by the river.
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