Elvira didn’t go up immediately.

She stayed down there, with the trapdoor open behind her, letting that different air brush against her skin as if it were another presence. It wasn’t the cold outside, nor the cold of the buried walls. It was a cold that seemed to come from within… from something that had been waiting for too long.

His eyes scanned the drawings tirelessly.

The same woman.

Closed.

Again and again.

In some, the figure had long, dark hair falling over its face. In others, it was sitting on the floor, with its legs drawn up to its chest. And in almost all of them… there was a door.

Closed.

Elvira moved closer.

She ran her fingers over one of the strokes. The paint was old, but not faded. As if someone had made sure that those drawings would survive time, the earth, oblivion.

He felt a throbbing in his temple.

It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

Like when you see something you don’t remember experiencing… but you know it belongs to you.

“No…” he murmured, almost voiceless.

He took a step back.

Then another one.

And as she turned to go up, something stopped her.

It wasn’t a sound.

It was a sensation.

As if someone were right behind her.

He turned around suddenly.

Nothing.

But the atmosphere had changed.

Heavier.

Nearest.

He climbed up quickly, closed the trapdoor more forcefully than necessary, and dragged the rug over it as if that could seal something he didn’t understand. His hands were trembling, but not from the effort.

It was something else.

He went upstairs in the house and, for the first time since he had entered, turned on all the lights.

Every corner.

Each wall.

As if clarity could bring order.

But he didn’t.

The cup was still there.

On the table.

With steam.

Elvira looked at her from afar, without getting closer.

“I’m not crazy…” she said, in a low but firm voice.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a necessity.

He forced himself to move. He walked to the window. Outside there was nothing. Only the open, silent night, with no signs of life.

He could leave.

That idea crossed his mind clearly.

I could leave, walk back, disappear again somewhere where no one would ask any questions.

But he didn’t move.

Because something inside her was no longer running away.

She had spent twenty years locked up.

And yet, that place… that basement… those drawings…

They were more familiar to him than freedom.

He sat down.

In front of the cup.

He watched her.

The steam rose slowly and steadily.

As if someone had just dumped her.

“If there’s anyone there…” he said, his voice firmer than he felt it to be, “come out.”

The silence was not broken immediately.

But it wasn’t the same silence.

There was a change.

Little.

Like a sigh that never quite ends.

And then, he felt it.

Behind her.

This time there was no doubt.

It was clear.

He turned slowly.

And he saw her.

Not like in dreams.

Not running.

Not laughing.

The girl was standing a few steps away.

Quiet.

Too still.

Her hair fell in disarray, her clothes were simple, old-fashioned, like something from another time. But what hurt the most wasn’t her appearance…

It was her gaze.

It was not empty.

She was… tired.

Like someone who had been waiting too long for something that never came.

Elvira didn’t scream.

He did not back down.

He looked at her.

And something inside her chest tightened in a way unlike anything she had ever felt before.

“Are you…?” he asked, not knowing what he was asking.

The girl did not respond.

But he raised his hand.

And he pointed.

Towards the ground.

Towards the trapdoor.

Elvira swallowed.

—I’ve already gone down…

The girl shook her head slowly.

No.

It wasn’t enough.

Elvira felt the weight of that denial like an order.

As if everything I had done up to now had only been… the surface.

He got up.

Her legs weren’t steady, but she moved forward anyway.

He moved the carpet.

He opened the trapdoor again.

The cold air rose suddenly.

This time he didn’t hesitate so much.

Low.

But something was different.

The basement no longer felt the same.

The drawings were still there… but they weren’t the only thing.

There was something else.

Something I hadn’t seen before.

Deep down.

A wall that didn’t look like a wall.

He approached.

He touched it.

The wood barely gave way.

He pushed.

And it opened.

A small space.

Hidden.

Inside… there was a chair.

And chains.

Elvira stopped breathing for a second.

It wasn’t my imagination.

It was not symbolic.

It was real.

That place had existed for someone.

Someone who couldn’t leave.

Her eyes moved slowly through the space.

And then he understood.

Not all at once.

Not as a clear revelation.

But rather like pieces that fit together too late.

Dreams.

The girl.

The woman in the drawings.

The door is closed.

The confinement.

Her stomach clenched.

“No…” she whispered.

But I already knew that.

The image came on its own.

A memory I hadn’t wanted to see.

A house.

Other.

Many years ago.

A girl who shouldn’t have been there.

A silence that no one should break.

And a decision.

One that had followed her to prison… although no one really knew why.

Elvira put her hand to her mouth.

-I don’t…

His voice wasn’t strong enough.

Behind her, the air changed again.

The girl was there.

Closer.

He no longer pointed.

He just stared at her.

And in that look there was no hatred.

That was the hardest part.

There was no anger.

There was… wait.

As if he hadn’t come to scare her.

But to make her see it.

Elvira fell to her knees.

The ground was cold.

But not as much as what was coursing through his body.

“I didn’t know…” she said, but the sentence broke off. “I didn’t… mean to…”

The words didn’t fit.

They were no good.

Not after so long.

The girl took another step.

And then, very slowly… he extended his hand.

Not to touch it.

To show you something.

In his palm… there was a key.

Small.

Old.

Elvira looked at her, not understanding at first.

Then… he looked down at the chains.

His breathing became irregular.

—Do you want me to…?

He didn’t finish the sentence.

It wasn’t necessary.

She took the key with trembling hands.

He approached.

The metal creaked upon contact.

It wasn’t easy.

Nothing was.

But the lock gave way.

The sound was low.

But inside her… it was enormous.

As if something that had been closed for years… were also opening.

When he released the chain, the air changed.

It didn’t disappear.

But it stopped being so heavy.

Elvira stayed there, kneeling, with the key in her hand.

The girl was gone.

Not like before.

But she hadn’t completely left either.

It was felt.

Different.

Lighter.

Elvira went up slowly.

He closed the trapdoor.

He sat down again at the table.

The cup no longer had steam.

The coffee was cold.

The house remained silent.

But it was no longer the same silence.

He looked at his hands.

They were still trembling.

Not out of fear.

From what I understood.

He had spent twenty years paying for something he could never quite name.

But the longest confinement… had not been in prison.

It was that place inside her where she chose not to look.

And that house…

I hadn’t found her to catch her.

I had waited for her… so that she would stop hiding from the one thing she could never bury.

Sometimes, leaving doesn’t mean walking through a door.

It means staying long enough… to open what you yourself closed.