The rain fell with a strange fury, as if the sky, too, was tired of witnessing so much injustice. In the alley behind Don Mario’s restaurant, an eight-year-old girl huddled under a cardboard box that offered no protection. Her name was Sofia. Her blond hair plastered to her face with dirty water, and her small hands were stained with grease, dirt, and the lessons of survival. On the street, Sofía had learned rules that weren’t written anywhere: don’t look people in the eye, don’t stay in one place, don’t trust anyone… and, above all, stay invisible.
That night, as she slowly chewed half a sandwich she’d salvaged from the trash, she heard a sound that didn’t belong with the rain. It wasn’t a car engine or a dog barking. It was a human groan, broken, as if air were escaping from a chest pounding from within. Sofia lifted her head, feeling a tug in her stomach, that instinct that on the street could save you or condemn you.
He peeked around the corner… and was left breathless.
A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, was crawling along the wet pavement. His knees scraped the concrete, his clothes were in tatters, and blood mingled with the rain, forming a dark trail that seemed to point to a path of pain. He had bruises on his face, cuts on his arms… and his legs, his legs were bent in a way they shouldn’t be. His eyes were wide open, green, desperate, and when he saw Sofia’s silhouette, he didn’t shout “help” like any other child would. He pleaded, trembling:
—Please… don’t hurt me… I can’t walk…
Sofia should have run. Everything in her body told her to: “Don’t get involved. Trouble kills.” But that phrase… “don’t hurt me”… wasn’t from someone who had just fallen. It was from someone who had spent a long time learning to be afraid.
Sofia took a step in the rain and raised her hands, showing her empty palms.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, in a low voice, as if speaking loudly might shatter what little calm remained.
The boy tried to go back away by crawling, his eyes wild.
—No… no… they won’t come back… they always come back…
Sofia felt a pang in her chest. She knew fear, but not like this. This fear was old, deep, like an invisible cage.
“I’m a girl like you,” she insisted, slowly approaching. “What’s your name?”
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it, as if his name hurt him too.
“Diego,” she finally whispered, her voice breaking. “They’ll…they’ll find me.”
At that moment, Sofia made a decision she didn’t fully understand until much later. It wasn’t logical. It was something stronger: the memory of all the nights when she, too, had been “nobody.” She knelt in the puddle, put her arm under the boy’s shoulder, and although he was bigger, he seemed as light as if he had been emptied out of his body.
“I know a place,” he said. “It’s not pretty, but it’s dry and safe. Come. Lean on me.”
Diego looked at her as if searching for a trap in her face. He found nothing. Just a soaked, stubborn girl with eyes that promised no miracles but certainly companionship. He said.
Walking was impossible. What they did was move forward in fits and starts: a drag, a step, a stifled groan. Sofia bit her tongue to keep from crying from the effort. Every time Diego gasped in pain, she murmured, “Almost there.” As if repeating it could make it true.
Her hiding place was in an abandoned office building, which no one dared approach because it smelled of dust, mold, and secrets. On the second floor, behind a fallen filing cabinet, Sofia had built her world: a threadbare blanket, two cans of food, a half-full water bottle, and a teddy bear with a missing eye, like her, incomplete but still there.
When they finally fell inside, trembling, Diego looked at her with tears on his eyelashes.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked. “You don’t even know me.”
Sofia covered herself with the blanket, covered him too, and answered bluntly:
—Because nobody helped me when I needed it. And I promised myself that if I ever could, I would.
Diego closed his eyes and, for the first time in who knows how long, his breathing calmed a little. Outside, the rain continued to pound the city as if it wanted to wash it clean. And somewhere in the distance, sirens began to approach, like an omen. Sofia felt that this night was not just any night. Something big was stirring in the darkness… and they were in the middle of it.
At dawn, light streamed through the broken windows and cast shadows across Diego’s bruised face. Sofia hadn’t slept. She had touched his forehead all night, terrified he would stop breathing. When he opened his eyes, what she saw in his gaze wasn’t just pain: it was intelligence, sadness, and constant vigilance, like an animal waiting for a blow even when being petted.
Sofia offered him a can of cold soup.
—That’s just how it is.
Diego tried to sit up and turned white.
“They broke them,” she said, as if commenting on the weather. “Six months ago. So I couldn’t escape.”
Sofia felt her throat close up.
“How long…?” he asked, though he dreaded the answer.
Diego took so long to speak that Sofia thought he had gone far away inside.
“Seven years old,” he finally whispered. “I was five when they took me.”
Sofia stood still. Seven years. Her mind tried to imagine it, but couldn’t. On the street, two years were already an eternity. Seven years… it was stealing your entire childhood.
—Do you remember your family?
Diego swallowed and for a second his face changed, as if an ancient light had been turned on.
“My dad’s name is Alejandro Romero,” she said. “He owned a big company… technology. He was always busy, but when he looked at me… I was everything. Mom made chocolate chip cookies. My room had stars on the ceiling. They told me… they told me my parents paid a ransom and then kept the money, that I was a problem. I stopped believing them… but I forgot my last name, I forgot where I lived… all I had left was my dad’s face.”
Sofia squeezed his hand.
—We’re going to take you to him.
Diego looked at her in despair.
“They’re always looking. They never stop. Sofia, you have to leave. If they find me here…”
A motorcycle passed near the building, and they both froze. Sofia realized the worst: Diego wasn’t just injured, he was being hunted. And those looking for him weren’t “normal” people; they were hunters.
Miles away, in a penthouse overlooking the horizon, Alejandro Romero held a faded photograph. A five-year-old boy, cookie dough in his hands, smiled as if the world were safe. Alejandro had looked at that photo so many times it was etched in his memory. Seven years, three months, and fourteen days since Diego disappeared from the yard. Seven years of sleepless nights, guilt, false alarms, and doors opening to say, “We’re sorry.”
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