CHAPTER NINE :THE GIRL WHO WASN'T SUPPOSED TO SHINE

The sun blazed high above the Montemayor estate, and while the air was thick with heat, the household felt colder than ever. There had been a strange silence around the mansion since the results of the essay competition were expected. Mira, now more familiar with the hidden corners of the estate than her own shadow, kept her distance but listened with ears wide open, heart thrumming like a drum.

Catalina Montemayor was glowing. She had submitted an essay under her name—one she hadn't written. The plan had been simple: find Mira's essay among the many scraps Mira had written and practiced with, and submit it as her own. Catalina knew it was good—better than anything she'd ever written. She had only tweaked a few lines, added her name, and turned it in.

And now, the results were back.

The morning mail was unusually heavy. Don Ricardo Montemayor, crisp in his white linen shirt and pale gray vest, opened the envelope with the seal of the National Literacy and Talent Board. His brow arched as he skimmed the page.

"Catalina!" he called, voice sharp. "Come to my study."

Catalina arrived moments later, her smile smug.

"Congratulations," he said, handing her the letter. "You won."

Catalina forced a gasp of surprise, even though she'd expected it. "Really? I did?"

Don Montemayor patted her shoulder proudly. "Yes. And you will be honored at the state literacy banquet. The panel was impressed."

"Thank you, Papa." She feigned humility but inside, pride puffed up.

What neither of them knew, however, was that the essay had caused more than just admiration—it had stirred curiosity. The host of the competition, Señora Violeta Inocencio, was a woman of insight and experience. Something in the language of the essay—the yearning, the voice, the raw, unfiltered truth—stood out. She had read essays from daughters of politicians, businessmen, scholars. But none sounded like this.

"This is the writing of someone who sees life from a very different window," she said aloud to her assistant. "Find this child. Catalina Montemayor, yes? From Santa Maria del Sol Academy."

The school was contacted, and soon Señora Inocencio was speaking with the headmistress.

"Yes, she is a student here. Bright. Though…her writing has not always been this extraordinary," the headmistress said cautiously.

Señora Inocencio squinted. "I want to meet her. And perhaps observe her at school. I'm thinking of nominating her for our national sponsored mentorship. A child this talented must be fostered."

The headmistress hesitated. "I believe there has been some…confusion."

Meanwhile, at the Montemayor mansion, Mira was folding linens when she heard the news echo down the hallways.

"She won," murmured one maid to another. "Catalina won the essay contest."

Mira dropped a towel. She stared at the floor for a long moment.

"She used your words," said Matilde, one of the older maids, who had grown fond of Mira. "Didn't she?"

Mira nodded slowly. Her voice barely above a whisper: "Only changed the ending."

Matilde sighed and rubbed her shoulder. "God sees. But now, let's pray He lets others see too."

Two days later, the grand black Mercedes with the golden insignia of the Literacy Board pulled into the mansion driveway. Catalina, brushing her hair in the parlor, leaped up.

"They're here," she said. "Papa, they're here!"

Don Montemayor adjusted his tie and met the woman with his usual charm.

"Welcome, Señora Inocencio."

"Thank you, Don Montemayor. I must say, I'm quite eager to meet your daughter in person. May we speak alone?"

Catalina was ushered into the room with tea and biscuits on silver trays. Señora Inocencio studied her.

"You're young, bright. I see it. But…did you write this entirely on your own?"

Catalina stiffened. "Yes, of course."

"Would you be willing to write something now? Just for me?"

Catalina blinked. Her heart stuttered.

"I… I'm not feeling well today."

"That's alright," said Señora Inocencio coolly. "Perhaps you can introduce me to your teacher? Or perhaps… I may speak to Mira?"

Catalina dropped her teacup.

"Mira? Why?"

"Let's call it intuition."

Mira was in the garden trimming roses when Señora Isabela summoned her inside. Don Fernando's jaw was taut. Catalina was glaring daggers.

Mira stood before them, dirt on her hands and a question in her eyes.

"Young lady," said Señora Inocencio, "Did you write this?"

Mira looked at Catalina, whose eyes pleaded a silent warning.

Mira shook her head slowly. "No, ma'am."

Señora Inocencio narrowed her gaze. "But did you write something like it?"

"…Yes."

"Can you write for me? Anything. Now."

Don Montemayor scowled. "Señora, this is inappropriate—"

"No, Papa," Catalina said suddenly, too loudly. "Let her try."

Mira was handed a pen and paper. Her hands shook, but her heart knew what it wanted to say.

"I will write about the first time I learned to read… in silence, from someone else's voice."

Words flowed. The room was still.

Ten minutes passed. When she was done, she placed the paper down and looked up.

Señora Inocencio picked it up. She read. Her face softened, then sharpened with awe.

"There you are," she whispered. "The voice."

Turning to Don Montemayor, she said, "Sir, I would like to sponsor Mira. Full scholarship. Boarding. Uniforms. Everything. If you would kindly sign this recommendation slip."

Don Montemayor looked at the paper like it was poison.

"She is not our daughter," he said coldly.

"She is talent. And talent must rise."

Catalina jumped in. "This is ridiculous! She's a maid's daughter. She doesn't belong there. That school is for us!"

Don Montemayor stood, face stone-like. "I will not have this girl tarnish our name."

Señora Isabela, silent until now, rose. "She will not tarnish anything. She is a light in a forgotten room."

Don Montemayor hesitated.

"You've always said education is what elevates us," she pressed.

After a long pause, with a grimace, he signed the slip.

Mira sat on her mattress that night, staring at the ceiling. Her mind spun with wonder and fear. She could see the uniform in her head. She could hear the words, the lectures, the debates she'd one day join.

In the adjacent room, Catalina was throwing her textbooks around, sobbing.

"Why her?" she cried. "Why always her?"

Señora Isabela entered quietly. "Because she listens. Because she wants it."

"She stole it from me."

"No. You took it from her. But still she shines."

The next morning, a tailor came with measuring tape and fabric swatches. Mira stood still as they measured her for her school uniform.

Catalina watched from the stairway, fury curling in her stomach.

"I'll make her regret this," she whispered to herself.

But in the garden, Mira smiled quietly. For the first time, her dream had arms… and those arms were lifting her.