“It’s been six months since we’ve had a woman,” two slaves said to her...

“It’s been six months since we’ve had a woman,” two slaves said to her...

“It’s been six months since we’ve had a woman,” two slaves said to her. The phrase struck Soledad, the daughter of a landowner, like a blow to the heart. She had never imagined hearing such a painful confession. Two strong men, marked by the harsh life of the fields, confessing a loneliness that no one else saw.

How could it be fair? How could a heart bear so much absence? What she didn't know was that this moment would be the beginning of a forbidden, powerful bond, capable of defying all of society. Because when a truth like that is revealed, nothing is ever the same again. To where someone can go for love.

The Louisiana sun, 1863, beat down heavily on the San Gabriel plantation. The air smelled of damp wood, sweat, and sadness. The men worked in the fields, the women in the kitchen, and silence covered everything like a thick blanket. On the balcony of the big house, a young woman with dark braids looked towards the wooden sheds.

It was Soledad Montemayor, 20 years old, fair-skinned, wearing a simple blue dress, with delicate hands that had never touched the earth, but with a heart that couldn't bear to see injustice. Her eyes filled with tears every time she heard a muffled cry, every time she saw a body bent with exhaustion. That morning Soledad had overheard a conversation between her father, Don Esteban, and other landowners.

They were talking about war, rumors of abolition, and new laws coming from the north. The men laughed disdainfully. "That won't reach here," her father had said, "in this land, I decide." But Soledad's heart remained restless. Something was changing in the world, and she felt that she too must change. She quietly descended the wooden stairs, avoiding the creaking of the steps.

She entered the kitchen, where the smell of freshly baked bread enveloped her. There was Elena Duarte, her best friend since childhood, a year older, her hair pulled back in a hurried bun, a lively expression in her eyes. "That lonely look again," Elena whispered, wiping her hands on her apron. "What did you hear now?" Soledad glanced towards the door, making sure no one else was nearby.

"They're talking about new laws, about freedom," she said softly. "But here everything stays the same. They're still locked up, still alone, as if they weren't people." Elena sighed. "You know how this place is. Things change slowly here. When they change at all." Soledad approached the table where there was bread, fruit, and a pitcher of fresh water. Her hands trembled slightly. "I'm going to the shed out back," she announced.

"I want to talk to them." Elena looked at her with fear and admiration at the same time. She knew who she was referring to. The two men who worked near the forest, always together, always serious, always silent. Benedicto and Mateo. "I'll go with you," she finally said. "I won't leave you alone in this."

They took a basket with bread, some cold meat, and a pitcher of water. They went out the back door, hiding in the shadows of the trees. Every step was a small act of rebellion, every sigh a prayer that no one would see them. The shed where they rested at midday was made of thick logs, with a wooden roof and a small iron stove in the center.

Inside, it smelled of smoke, of skin warmed by field work, of accumulated loneliness. When Soledad pushed open the door, the light from outside flooded the place and outlined two large, strong figures, glistening with sweat. Benedicto, tall, broad-shouldered, with a serious but gentle gaze. Mateo, a little taller still, with defined muscles and calm eyes that seemed to weigh every word before it was spoken. They immediately stood up, surprised, almost confused.

They weren't used to seeing the landowner's daughter entering their space. "Miss," Benedicto said, bowing his head. “No, I’m not a lady today,” Soledad replied, trying to smile. “Today I’m just Soledad, and this is Elena. We brought food.” There was a moment of silence.

Then the tense expressions on the two men’s faces softened slightly. Elena placed the basket on a rustic table. The wood creaked as they began to eat timidly. Soledad watched them attentively. She noticed their large, calloused hands, the old scars on their arms, the way they looked at each other before taking each piece of bread, as if they couldn’t believe it was really for them.

There was curiosity in the young woman’s heart, something that went beyond compassion, a question that burned on her tongue. “Can I ask you something personal?” she said suddenly. Mateo looked up. Benedicto stopped with the piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Elena swallowed hard, nervously. “Ask away, miss. I mean, Soledad,” Mateo replied.