It was a cool morning in Valencia when Ernesto, a man in a wrinkled suit, wandered aimlessly through the streets. A year had passed since his son, Mateo, had vanished without a trace. The posters he’d put up around the city, bearing his boy’s photograph and the hope that someone might recognize him, were beginning to fade with time. His weary face and broken heart reflected the anguish of a father who found no solace.
Ernesto had been a successful man, a respected businessman, but all that no longer mattered. His life had been reduced to a repetition of empty mornings, waiting for a sign, a miracle, something to guide him to his son. But there were no signs. No trace.
One day, he decided to go further, venturing into the poorest neighborhoods of the city, where the walls spoke of poverty and wires hung from the ceiling like withered branches. There, on Los Pinos Street, he put up another poster. The tape wouldn’t stick well; his fingers trembled. Every bump in the road, every corner he explored, reminded him of his son: the sound of his laughter, his small voice calling him, his presence that was no longer there.
The wind nearly snatched the poster from his hands, but he clung to it, hoping the world wouldn’t forget him, that someone, somewhere, might give him a clue. It was then that a little girl appeared before him. Her gaze pierced him, her large, clear eyes shining with a mixture of innocence and certainty. “Sir, that boy lives in my house,” she said in a soft voice that nonetheless chilled Ernesto’s blood.
Ernesto’s heart leapt. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Was it possible? Could it be Mateo? The little girl, barefoot and wearing a faded blue dress, pointed to the poster, and he, almost breathless, knelt before her. “Are you sure? Does that boy really live with you?” he asked, searching for an answer that couldn’t possibly be true. But she nodded firmly, describing Mateo: a quiet boy who sometimes cried at night and whispered his father’s name.
Ernesto couldn’t understand; his mind struggled to process what he was hearing. But the little girl didn’t stop. “Yes, sir. She lives in my house, and sometimes she cries at night,” she said, her voice filled with a strange certainty. His heart overflowing with emotion, Ernesto asked her to take him there. “It’s close, sir. You just have to turn the corner,” she replied.
That promise of hope ignited a spark in Ernesto, a spark he had lost long ago. The cold wind seeped into his bones as they walked through the streets; each step toward the girl’s house was a heartbeat closer to the truth he had been searching for. And though the streets were narrow, the air smelled of freshly baked bread and dignity; the path seemed to brighten for him.
Finally, they arrived at a house with yellow walls and blue windows. The door was ajar, and the air smelled of hot soup. Ernesto knocked, and when it opened, a tired-looking woman with her hair pulled back in a bun appeared before him. “What do you want?” she asked with a forced smile, but something in her gaze betrayed her composure.
“I’m looking for a boy, his name is Mateo,” Ernesto said, without taking his eyes off her. At that moment, a fleeting flicker crossed her face. For a second, something inside her seemed to crumble, but she quickly regained her composure. “It’s just my daughter and me living here,” she said, her voice no longer sounding so convincing.
The little girl, Belita, looked at the woman with eyes full of fear and sadness, but said nothing. Ernesto insisted, “I just want to see the child. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave in peace.” The woman lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable, and replied, “There’s no child here.” And with a brusque movement, she closed the door.
Ernesto’s heart stopped for a moment. Something about that house didn’t feel right, something reeked of lies behind those walls. When the door closed, he stood there, staring at it, wondering if what he was experiencing was just a cruel illusion. But he wouldn’t leave without knowing the truth.
At that moment, a faint, distant sound reached his ears. It was crying, a small, broken voice saying one word: “Dad.” Ernesto felt his soul tear apart. The truth was there, within his grasp. With renewed determination, he pushed open the door and went inside.
Inside, he followed the sound of crying to a room at the back, where he found a child huddled on a makeshift bed. It was Mateo. He looked up and his eyes met his father’s. “Dad, time broke,” the boy whispered, and Ernesto’s world crumbled at his feet.
At that moment, he understood that it had all been worth it, that all the tears and anguish vanished as he stood there before him. Finally, after so long, the search was over.
The woman, Clara, approached, crying, but Ernesto didn’t look at her angrily. He knew she had been afraid too, but in the end, what mattered was that his son was safe. “Don’t punish her, Dad,” Mateo said, pointing at the woman. “She took care of me when I was crying.”
Ernesto hugged her tightly, feeling his heart fill with love and forgiveness. Although the situation wasn’t easy, it was clear that everyone’s life, including Belita’s, was about to change. Because, in the end, what truly matters isn’t lost time, but the love that remains, the value of truth, and the opportunity for a new beginning.
