My family took us on an excursion that day. Without prior warning, my parents and my sister pushed me and my six-year-old son off a cliff.

Although the fall was short, the terror made it endless. I felt the air tear at my lungs as I tried to hold my son back in my arms, turning my body to cushion the impact.

The ground appeared suddenly like a flash of light. We rolled among stones, roots and dust, until finally we came to a stop on a natural ledge halfway up the cliff.

My son was crying, but he was alive. So was I.

Above, the silhouettes of my family peered over the edge. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t make a gesture. They just watched.

And then they disappeared.

I don’t know if he had fled… or if he was simply waiting for gravity to do the rest.

I tried to stand up, but my ankle burned with a dry, definite pain. So, I forced myself to keep calm for my son.

—Don’t move—I told him, while checking with my hands how far the precipice fell below us.

The ledge was steep. Behind it, the same rocky wall plunged into a dark void, so deep that not even the echo returned.

Fue eptoпces cυaпdo escυché algo qυe me froló la sanпgre.

It wasn’t the wind.
It wasn’t loose stones.
It was a voice.

A well-known voice.

—He shouldn’t have stopped there.

My sister.

Sυ frase resoпó como υпa seпteпcia.

A whisper directed at someone else… to someone who responded with a murmur too deep to distinguish words.

They were not alone.

And it was over.

While I held my son by one arm, with the other I looked for a foothold. The rock was wet and slippery. There was no way to climb without help. And they weren’t going to help me.

A shadow crossed the edge of the precipice. At first glance I thought it was a vulture or a falling log. But no. It was an object. It was falling straight towards us. I only noticed its trajectory at first glance, just before it hit the ledge and rolled to my feet.

It was a rope.
A tight, new rope… too new.

And at the end, tied with an impeccable knot, there was a handwritten message.

Trembling, I opened it with stiff fingers.

“Release the child first.”

My son looked at me, yes.

I did understand.

And I knew, with a certainty as brutal as the void beneath my feet, that this had not been an impulse.
It had not been an accident.
It had been planned.

And the worst part:
Someone else was targeting my family.

My family took us on an excursion that day. Without prior warning, my parents and my sister pushed me and my six-year-old son off a cliff.

Although the fall was short, the terror made it endless. I felt the air tear at my lungs as I tried to hold my son back in my arms, turning my body to cushion the impact.

The ground appeared suddenly like a flash of light. We rolled among stones, roots and dust, until finally we came to a stop on a natural ledge halfway up the cliff.

My son was crying, but he was alive. So was I.

Above, the silhouettes of my family peered over the edge. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t make a gesture. They just watched.

And then they disappeared.

I don’t know if he had fled… or if he was simply waiting for gravity to do the rest.

I tried to stand up, but my ankle burned with a dry, definite pain. So, I forced myself to keep calm for my son.

—Don’t move—I told him, while checking with my hands how far the precipice fell below us.

The ledge was steep. Behind it, the same rocky wall plunged into a dark void, so deep that not even the echo returned.

Fue eptoпces cυaпdo escυché algo qυe me froló la sanпgre.

It wasn’t the wind.
It wasn’t loose stones.
It was a voice.

A well-known voice.

—He shouldn’t have stopped there.

My sister.

SŅ frase resoпó como upa septeпcia.
Uп sŅsŅrro directo a algŅieп más… a algŅieп qŅe respoпdió coп Ѕп mŅrmŅllo demasiado grave para distiпgŅir palabras.

They were not alone.

And it was over.

While I held my son by one arm, with the other I looked for a foothold. The rock was wet and slippery. There was no way to climb without help. And they weren’t going to help me.

A shadow crossed the edge of the precipice. At first glance I thought it was a vulture or a falling log. But no. It was an object. It was falling straight towards us. I only noticed its trajectory at first glance, just before it hit the ledge and rolled to my feet.

It was a rope.
A tight, new rope… too new.

And at the end, tied with an impeccable knot, there was a handwritten message.

Trembling, I opened it with stiff fingers.

“Release the child first.”

My son looked at me, yes.

I did understand.

And I knew, with a certainty as brutal as the void beneath my feet, that this had not been an impulse.
It had not been an accident.
It had been planned.

And the worst part:
Someone else was targeting my family.