She deleted the template. Instead, she opened a photo she had taken last winter: the university library at dawn, frost on the windows, light spilling from the third floor where she had spent hundreds of hours. She placed it as the background. Over it, she wrote:
(The Cost of a Dream)
She thought of her father, a bricklayer who had never set foot in a university. Last week, he had asked, "So you just write your name on a fancy first page, and they give you a degree?" She had laughed, but now the question felt heavy. The portada was a threshold. On one side: the chaos of notes, coffee stains, and 3 a.m. breakthroughs. On the other: the polished lie that everything was under control. portada trabajo universidad
"The seal is inside," Sofía replied. And for the first time, she believed it. She deleted the template
Below that, in small letters: Trabajo Final – Sociología . Her name. Her father's name, too, as a dedication she would later erase. Over it, she wrote: (The Cost of a