In the cold light of Sunday morning, Pamplona Alta no longer looked like a neighborhood, but a wound carved into the hillside. Families picked through twisted metal and blackened wood, lifting aside debris in the desperate hope of finding documents, a photograph, a child’s toy that somehow survived. Many found nothing. The fire had been ruthless, and the explosions from the suspected clandestine pyrotechnics workshop only accelerated the destruction, turning fragile houses into instant fuel.

Yet amid the devastation, a fragile form of order emerged. Firefighters remained on watch, stamping out hotspots. Volunteers handed out water and blankets. Schools and community centers opened their doors to those with nowhere to sleep. Officials promised investigations, stricter controls, safer housing. But residents, now homeless in a city already stretched thin, understood the deeper truth: what burned in Pamplona Alta was not only wood and plastic, but years of sacrifice—and the illusion that such a tragedy could never reach them.