The door resisted for a moment, swollen with damp. Isabel pushed it open with effort and took a step into the hallway. Then he stopped abruptly: before her stood an unknown man. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a loose sweater, holding a towel. He looked at her in surprise, assessing her aging face, the old-fashioned scarf, and the rough prison coat.

“Who are you looking for, Grandma?” he asked in a calm voice, but icy as a distance.

Isabel’s throat closed. She could barely manage to whisper:

“Adrián… Where’s Adrián?”

The man wrinkled his brow, noticing the worn clothes peeking out from under the coat. A flash of irony appeared in his eyes.
“Adrián? Adrián García? Ma’am, that man sold me this house three years ago, right after he finished his sentence. Now I’m the owner.”

The world didn’t collapse: it froze. The words—three years, he sold, after serving—p:ierced her heart like nails. She remembered the past: that partner, Andrés, who had dragged her son into the shady business of illegal logging. They were caught. And she, the mother, took all the blame on herself. The court believed a sick, elderly woman more easily than a strong young man. She served five years in prison for him. And he… had sold his home. His strength. His memory.

Dazed, she backed into the parking lot. She sank onto the cold bench, silent tears running down her cheeks. She wasn’t sobbing; she was simply crying, wiping her face with the corner of her old handkerchief.

“Adrian… my son… Where are you? Are you still alive? My heart feels that misfortune has overtaken you…” she whispered in the solitude.