The Ensenada pier woke beneath a veil of pale mist so thick it erased the horizon, turning the sea into an idea rather than a sight. The wooden boards, swollen with age and moisture, groaned softly under the weight of time, each creak echoing like a memory stirred from sleep. There were no vendors setting up stalls, no tourists clutching coffee cups, no music spilling from open doors. Even the usual chatter of gulls was absent, save for one distant cry that cut through the gray like a blade.
On a weathered bench near the edge of the pier sat an elderly man, his back straight despite the tremor in his limbs, his posture bearing the unmistakable imprint of discipline learned long ago. Don Ernesto Salgado had the look of someone who had once carried responsibility heavier than his own life and never fully put it down. His hands, scarred and lined, rested calmly on his knees, fingers slightly curled as if they still remembered the shape of a rifle or the tension of a radio handset. Pressed against his leg lay a German Shepherd, large and solid, its body aligned protectively with the man’s, breathing slow and steady. There was no leash, no visible collar, nothing that suggested ownership, yet there was nothing stray about the animal. Its coat was clean but worn, its eyes alert yet soft, carrying something deeper than obedience—something shaped by experience, fear, loyalty, and a memory that did not belong to words.