Herpa had always been one of those men who seemed invincible. In business magazines they called him “the king of inversions”, at conferences they gave him standing ovations, in photographs he smiled in front of luxury cars and mansions with perfect gardens.

From the outside, his life was a showcase of success: tailored suits, expensive watches, first-class travel. But no one saw what happened when he closed his bedroom door, when the silence forced him to look at the only absence he couldn’t buy.

That auspice had the name: Lorezo.

His only son, his little playmate, had disappeared a year ago. There was no word, no call, no explanation. One afternoon he was playing in the garden, near the red swing, and after a while… nothing. As if the world had swallowed him up.

At first, Herap moved heaven and earth: he hired detectives, paid rewards, went on television, and asked the police for help. Over time, the lights went out, the cameras left, and the voices grew tired of always repeating the same thing: “We found him, but there are no new leads.”

He alone continued searching.

That morning, like so many others, he put on the same wrinkled jacket that used to smell of expensive perfume and now only smelled of sleepless nights. He arrived at the back seat of the car covered with posters: Lorenzo’s photo smiling, with his big, lively eyes, and below it an almost torn message: “WANTED. ANY INFORMATION, CALL…”.

He started the engine with trembling hands and drove away from the elegant neighborhoods he knew by heart.

This time he decided to go where he had gone before: to the neighborhoods where the streets were paved, the walls peeling, and the houses stood almost by faith. There, nobody looked at him like a millionaire. Nobody knew about his businesses or his magazine covers. There, he was just a man with red eyes putting up posters, a father suffering from post-mortem pain.

He stopped next to a rusty post and took a deep breath before sticking up another poster. The tape was sticking to his fingers, the paper was wrinkling, and he tried to smooth it out with a delicacy he no longer possessed. As he smoothed the photo, he whispered almost in a voice:

Someone must have seen you, son… someone…

The wind blew warm, stirring up dust and memories. The world seemed to keep turning as if no one cared about his pain. Herepa felt ridiculous, small, absurd with that stack of papers in his hand. He was about to move on to the next post when he heard a small voice behind him:

—Sir… that child lives in my house.

He froze. His heart, which had been beating with dread for months, gave such a strong leap that it almost took his breath away. He turned slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement would break the illusion, and saw a barefoot girl in a worn dress with enormous eyes. She was looking at him with a mixture of shyness and certainty.

“What… what did you say?” he stammered.

The girl pointed at the sign with her little finger.

—That child—she repeated, as if she were talking about something completely normal—. Lives with my mom and me.

Herpa’s legs went weak. For a second he thought he was dreaming, that the lack of sleep was playing a trick on him. He crouched down until he was at her height.

“Are you sure?” she asked, trying to hold back the tremor in her voice. “Are you sure it’s him… this kid here?”

The little girl frowned, looked at the photo attentively and nodded naturally.

—Yes. He hardly speaks. He draws all the time and cries at night. Sometimes he mutters things… he calls someone.

—To whom? —The question escaped him like a desperate whisper.

—To her dad —she answered without realizing that she had just opened a crack in that man’s world.

Herpa felt like he couldn’t breathe. Everything he had repressed for a year suddenly surged into his chest: Lorenzo’s laughter in the hallways, his drawings stuck to the board, his voice calling him at three in the morning after a nightmare.

He had to close his eyes to avoid collapsing right there, in the middle of that unknown street.

—Do you live very far from here? —he asked, clinging to that last hope like someone clinging to a life preserver.

—No, it’s nearby —replied the pineapple with a shy smile—. After the corner.

For a moment, Herpa considered turning around and fleeing. What if it wasn’t his son? What if it was another child? What if it was a cruel joke of fate? But when he looked again into those childless eyes full of sincerity, he knew he couldn’t back down.

“Could you take me?” he finally asked. “I just… I just want to see him. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave.”

The pineapple hesitated, biting her lip.

—My mom might get angry…

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to know if he’s my son.”

She looked at him for a few seconds that seemed to last forever. Then she nodded slowly, as if a courage she knew was awakening within her small breast.

—Okay, follow me.

As he walked through the narrow streets, Herpa felt that each step brought him closer to something that could either rescue him or finish destroying him. He didn’t know that that afternoon he would not only find his son, but also discover the most painful truth he could have ever imagined.

The girl’s name was Amalia. She walked in front, light and steady despite being barefoot, dodging puddles and stones as if she knew every corner of the neighborhood by heart. Her sister followed a few meters behind, her heart pounding in her throat.

The suit that once made him feel powerful now seemed ridiculous to him in the middle of those humble streets.

—Sometimes he talks about a red swing —commented the pineapple, without turning around—. And about a black car that made a lot of noise.

Herpa stopped dead. The red swing was the one in the garden of his house, where he had played together so many afternoons. The black car was his. He felt his knees give out.

“It’s him,” she thought, swallowing tears. “It has to be him.”

The road became increasingly narrow until Amalia pointed to a small house with cracked walls and blue-painted windows, with peeling paint.

—We live there.

Herpa stared at her as if she were the gate to heaven… or hell. He took a deep breath, straightened his jacket with a little force, and let himself be led to the entrance. The door creaked as Amalia pushed it open. Inside, a woman was waiting for them in the living room.

Claυdia.

Her gaze met Herá’s as soon as she entered. For a second, she seemed like any other woman: married, simple, with hands marked by work. But as soon as she saw the man, something changed in her face. Her eyes widened, a servile smile tightened her mouth, and her fingers clenched as if she were holding a secret.

—Good afternoon —Herá greeted, maintaining the calm—. I think… I think my son might be here.

Claudia let out a short laugh, threw yourself.

—Your son? No, you’re mistaken. My son lives here more than my daughter.

Amalia took a step forward, confused.

—But Mom, the baby…

—Amalia, come in now —the woman ordered with a hardness that gripped the air.

The pineapple remained still, with eyes full of stillness.

—Madam, I beg you —Herpa insisted—. I just want to see him. Just a minute. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave and never come back.

—I already told you there’s no pipgup pine here —she replied, crossing her arms—. Go look for it somewhere else.

The slam of the door that threw him out of the house echoed through the entire alley. Herpa stood there, facing the closed door, his fists clenched and his soul shattered. He could hear Amalia’s sobs from the other side and the muffled murmur of the woman trying to silence her.

While picking up one of the posters that had fallen, he swore something in silence:

“It’s dead. Here is Lorenzo. I’m going back… even if it costs me my life.”

What he didn’t know was that, at that same moment, upstairs, a trembling girl opened the door of a small room… and found herself face to face with the frightened eyes of the boy who would forever change his destiny.

Amalia went up the stairs with her heart about to jump out of her chest. She knew that her mother cheated sometimes, but she had never seen her so wary, so purple. She pushed open the bedroom door and saw him: sitting in a chair, with a notebook in his lap, his fingers stained with pencil and his eyes full of fear.

—Lore… —she whispered.

The boy raised his head, as if he feared that saying his name was a crime.

“Mom told me to stay still,” he murmured. “Not to make any noise.”

Amalia ran to hug him.

“That man downstairs says he’s your dad,” she told him, through tears. “And you… you call him a dream.”

The child’s eyes filled with confusion. His lips trembled.

“Mom said my dad is dead,” he answered softly. “That nobody loved me.”

The words hurt her even as she said them. Amalia felt something break inside. She didn’t know where the truth lay, but something in her chest screamed that there were too many lies in that house. And that what her mother was hiding was darker than she could have imagined.

That night she barely slept. Every step Claudia took in the hallway, every secret call, every whisper behind the doors made her feel like she was living in the middle of a play in which everyone was acting except her and Lorenzo. Until a tiny detail changed everything: a loose floorboard in her mother’s room.

With her heart in her mouth, she lifted the wood and found an old notebook, wrapped in a handkerchief. She opened it expecting to find letters or mementos, but instead she saw pages full of names, dates, and numbers. She didn’t read anything… until a name looked at her from the paper:

“Loreпzo H.”

The world stopped him. Lorenzo. His friend. The boy who slept in the next room. The same boy from the posters that a stranger was putting up all over the city.

At that moment, Amalia understood that she could no longer remain silent. She was afraid of her mother, afraid of what she would discover, afraid of losing the only family she knew. But her greatest fear was another: that Lorenzo would come home. That Lorenzo would find out who she really was.

With trembling hands, she tore off a sheet of paper, copied the name, the dates, the most important entries, and hid the notebook again. Then she put the paper in her dress pocket as if it were dynamite, as if that truth could explode at any moment.

I didn’t quite know how, but I knew I had to find that man on the posters. The millionaire with sad eyes. The father who kept calling his son even when everyone had told him to let go.

That’s how it ended, as evening fell, in front of the enormous iron gate of a mansion that he had never imagined stepping on.

The butler was slow to believe that that barefoot girl, with her wrinkled dress and eyes full of fear, carried in her pocket the key to a mystery that had gone unanswered for a year. But upon hearing the phrase “it’s about your son,” he decided to open the door.

When Herpa enters the room and recognizes it, his heart gives a fright.

“You…” he said. “You’re the poster girl.”

Amalia nodded, took a deep breath, and unfolded the crumpled paper she had hidden.

—I found this in the house— he explained. Under the floor, in my mom’s room. I don’t know what it means, but her name and her son’s name are there.

Herpa took the sheet. She recognized the previous handwriting, the dates, some names she had seen on other missing children posters. She felt anger and fear at the same time.

—Your mother… —she whispered—. I think she works with very dangerous people, my dear.

Amalia’s eyes filled with tears.

“She took care of me,” he said. “But she also lied to me. I don’t want Lorenzo to live with lies.”

Herpa bent down until he was at her height and took her hands.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice breaking, “evil disguises itself as love. The only thing that matters now is that you did the right thing. Thanks to you, I can find my son. And you… you can start over.”

In a matter of minutes, the decision was made. Herpa called the police, explained what she had discovered, and before the patrol cars arrived, she drove off in her car. She wasn’t going to wait. Not again. Not another day, Lorenzo.

Amalia sat beside him, clutching the paper as if it were a shield. As they crossed the city with the night lights reflecting off the windshield, she could only think of one thing: what was about to happen would change the lives of all three of them forever.

They arrived at the house in silence. The neighborhood seemed to hold their breath. Herpa turned off the engine a few meters away, got out carefully, and entered through the back. The smell of dampness and old food hit him immediately. Each step toward the room where Lorenzo slept was a faster pulse.

When he opened the door and saw the chosen child on the bed, the man stopped.

—Loreпzo… —she whispered.

The child opened his eyes, confused, and looked at him as if he had a memory turned face in front of him.

—Dad? —he said almost without a voice.

Herpap broke down. She knelt beside him, embraced him desperately, and wept like a puma before in her life. There was no power, no fortune, no success that could come close to that moment. It was there, at last. She held him in her arms again.

Amalia watched the scene with her hands on her chest, also with tears. “I knew it was him,” she repeated to herself.

But the joy was short-lived. Heavy footsteps echoed through the room. A key turned in the door. Claudia’s icy voice filled the house.

What followed was chaos: shouts, accusations, confessions that hurt like blows. Claudia admitted through tears that she worked with a network that stole children, that Lorenzo should have been something more, but that she didn’t have the courage to turn him in.

The accomplice pulled out a knife. Sacred wound, the children throwing themselves upon the aggressor with a courage that could not fit their bodies. Amalia hanging from his back, Lorenzo biting his wrist, the weapon slipped to the ground, a broken window, a jump into the yard.

And finally, mermaids.

The blue and red lights of the patrol cars bathed the worn walls. The police stormed in like a storm. The accomplice fell in seconds. Claudia stood motionless, her arms raised, her face wet with tears. She looked at her daughter one last time.

“Forgive me, Amalia,” he pleaded.

The pineapple was crying, torn to pieces inside.

“Why?” was all he could say. “Why did you do this to me?”

There was no response. Only the handcuffs closing, the metallic clang of the patrol car door, the echo of sirens fading into the night… and the trembling embrace of a sacred millionaire kneeling in front of two frightened children.

—It’s over —Herá whispered—. You saved our lives.

In the following days, everything seemed to move more slowly. The old house remained empty, marked by police reports and memories that no one wanted. Herpa took Amalia and Lorenzo to his mansion. That house that had once been only luxury and silence was gradually filled with noise and life.

She opened the curtains, let in the light. Lorenzo ran to the garden, found himself on the red swing, and for the first time since his disappearance, Herpa saw him truly laugh. Amalia stared at everything with wide eyes, wondering if she was dreaming.

—This place is too big for me —she confessed one afternoon, sitting on the sofa.

Herпáп sopió coп sυavidad.

“A home isn’t measured by its size, Amalia,” he told her. “It’s measured by love. And you brought love back to this house.”

Loreпzo пo separated from her. They played like brothers, argued over silly things, and reconciled at the same time. Sometimes, however, he found her quiet, looking through the window, with a lost gaze.

—You miss her, don’t you? —Herpa asked her one day, sitting next to her on the swing.

Amalia took a while to respond.

—Yes… —he admitted—. Even though I’ve done bad things.

—A daughter’s love is not easily erased—he said. But with time, loving can also mean forgiving what is not understood.

The news about Claudia arrived like a cold wave: charges for kidnapping, criminal association, definitive loss of custody. Amalia listened in silence, staring at the ground.

“Is it going to be okay?” he finally asked.

Herпáп took хпos segυпdos eп eпscoпtrar la respυesta meпos dolorosa.

“He’ll pay for what he did,” he replied. “And maybe, one day, he’ll find some peace.”

The pineapple was there, with the heart made up.

—I just want her to know that… I still love her.

That was enough to make Herap’s eyes well up with tears. He hugged her tightly.

—That’s why you’re so special—he told her. —Because, even though you’re hurt, you still know how to love.

The weeks became a new routine. There were tasks, laughter, visits from psychologists, meetings with social workers. Lorenzo was gradually recovering his faculties. Amalia was discovering what it was like to sleep without fear of calls at night or secrets hidden under the floorboards.

One morning, the telephone rang with an unexpected news call. Social services informed him that temporary custody of Amalia would be granted to Herpa. He looked out the window before answering. He saw them in the garden, embracing, playing games that no one else knew.

—She’s already part of my family —he finally said—. Much more than any role.

That afternoon he called her to his office. Amalia arrived with her heart racing, thinking she had done something wrong.

“Is something wrong?” she asked nervously.

Herпáп let out a soft laugh.

“Yes, something’s wrong… but it’s good,” he replied. “I’ve thought about it a lot, Amalia. And if you want… I’d like you to be my daughter.”

Time seemed to stop. The girl looked at him with eyes full of tears.

“Your daughter?” he repeated, almost in disbelief.

“My daughter,” he confirmed. “You taught me that family isn’t just blood, but who chooses to love you. And today I choose you.”

She couldn’t say anything. She threw herself into his arms crying, clutching his shirt as if she feared the answer would change.

—I choose you too, Dad —he finally whispered.

Lorenzo, who had heard from the doorway, ran to embrace them. And the three of them remained like that, entwined, as if time had finally ceased to hurt. The sun shone through the window, the garden smelled of damp earth, and for the first time in a long time, the mansion didn’t feel empty, but complete.

Months later, at the adoption ceremony, the judge asked Amalia:

—Do you want to keep your last name or do you want to change it?

She looked at Herpa and Lorenzo. She saw the eyes of her heart brother, the excited smile of her new father, and felt something like a miracle where before there had only been fear.

—I want to have the same as them —he replied.

When the document was signed, there was no applause from magazines or flashes from photographers, but there was something much more important: the certainty of a new beginning. Herpa lifted Amalia in his arms while Lorenzo laughed and spun around her.

—Now yes —said the man, his heart calm for the first time in years—. We are a complete family.

She looked at the children and thought about everything she had lost. About everything she had recovered. About how a barefoot girl, with a worn dress and an enormous heart, had changed her life more than any million-dollar business.

“Pain destroyed me,” he said to himself in silence, “but the love of a child rebuilt me.”

And although the world went on, with its haste and its indifference, in that house where before there had only been an echo of loneliness, now there were dreams of laughter, small footsteps, and voices calling each other “dad,” “brother,” “daughter.” It wasn’t a perfect ending, but it was real. And, above all, it was full of something that neither money nor tragedy can buy: a second chance.