The world kept moving.
The truck kept advancing… or at least that's what I thought.
I was still inside it, my body trembling, my hands clenched against my legs, my chest rising and falling unevenly.
My throat burned from crying so much, from screaming names that were no longer there to answer.
But something didn't feel right.
I hadn't felt the passage of time like other times.
There were no long curves, no changing scenery, no slow exhaustion that comes after a long trip.
Everything had been too fast.
Too abrupt.
We had passed through a teleportation module.
I realized it later.
At that moment, all I knew was that the world had broken.
The doors were enormous, ancient, made of dark wood reinforced with old metal, as if they had been standing there for centuries.
When they opened, they didn't reveal a place on the other side, but an impossible void.
A vibrant neon blue, deep, something that didn't look like light or darkness, but something in between, unnatural.
I didn't understand what was happening.
I felt pressure in my body.
In my chest.
In my ears.
As if the air had suddenly become heavier.
As if someone had squeezed the world around me.
There was no transition.
One instant we were at my father's residence, in Antioquia, in Medellín.
Home.
Mild altitude.
Familiar silence.
And the next…
Cold.
Wind.
The altitude that made my lungs burn.
Cundinamarca.
Sesquilé.
Near Lake Guatavita.
More than three thousand meters above sea level.
Far.
Not far like when someone goes on a trip.
Far like when you can't walk back.
Far like when the world decides you no longer belong where you came from.
The great families had those modules.
They said they were normal.
Everyday.
Necessary tools.
But for me, they weren't.
For me, it felt like the world folded…
and left me on the wrong side.
"Shut the hell up already!" Lauren shouted from the seat beside me.
Her voice cut through the air.
It wasn't an impulsive scream.
It was exhaustion.
Annoyance.
Pure irritation.
That tone.
That damn tone.
It wasn't new.
In my past life, Lauren had spoken to me like that many times.
Not with open shouting, not in front of everyone.
They were disguised scoldings, words soft on the outside and poison on the inside.
Behave yourself.
Don't make a fool of yourself.
Don't ruin this.
Always in public.
Always with that fake smile.
Always as if I were the problem that had to be hidden.
This time there were no smiles.
But the message was the same.
I stopped crying.
Not because she yelled at me.
Not because I was scared.
I stopped crying because I understood.
Crying was useless here.
My sobs slowly faded, trapped in my chest, turning into something heavy, dense.
Lauren snorted in annoyance and turned her gaze toward the window, as if my very existence exhausted her.
I lowered my head.
And I started thinking.
Why did my parents let her take me?
Why did my grandfather, Pedro Arias, talk to her so she would "take me in"?
Why couldn't they fix the mistake they made?
The questions piled up, one after another, not giving me time to breathe.
And without realizing it, one of them answered itself.
Because the mistake was me.
It was too obvious.
If they couldn't fix it, if they couldn't "fix" me, then the logical thing was to set me aside.
To push me away.
That's what they had done.
Then…
why were they sad?
If I was a mistake, my departure should have been a relief.
No tears.
No broken looks.
No trembling hands.
If I was a mistake, leaving should have brought them peace.
But it didn't.
That thought confused me more than anything else.
The truck slowed down.
I lifted my gaze.
We had arrived.
Lauren's compound rose before us, imposing, vast, too large to feel human.
Built near the lake, surrounded by stone, wind, and constant mist.
Everything there felt rigid.
Cold.
Calculated.
It wasn't like my father's residence, which always felt calm, like home, like a safe silence.
This wasn't that.
This was order.
Stone.
Discipline.
A place not meant to embrace anyone.
The truck came to a complete stop.
The driver got out first and opened the door on my side.
Lauren stepped out first, without even looking at me.
A maid approached immediately.
Lauren spoke without hesitation:
"Marta, the kid's luggage is in the back," she said, pointing at me as if I weren't a person.
"The room I assigned is behind the central library. When you leave him there, inform me so I can assign his caretaker."
Marta nodded without saying a word.
Lauren snorted and, before leaving, turned her head toward me.
"And you," she said, "stop this damn scene. I've had enough for today."
Her gaze was hard.
Tired.
Cold.
"I had to come pick you up personally because your parents were incapable of abandoning you," she continued.
"Your damn mother almost hurt me, and I'm sick of listening to your crying."
She paused briefly.
"So do me a favor," she added.
"Be a quiet mistake."
Then she turned around.
And left.
The truck door remained open behind me.
The cold wind slipped in without asking, seeping through my clothes, clinging to my skin as if reminding me that I was no longer in Medellín.
That I was no longer home.
Marta appeared beside me a few seconds later.
There was no rush in her movements.
No harshness either.
She was different from Lauren.
More… neutral.
"Come," she said softly.
She took my hand.
Her hand was warm.
Mine was still cold.
I didn't resist.
We walked.
The inside of the compound was enormous.
So large that the word "building" fell short.
It wasn't a single structure, but several connected by stone paths, wide courtyards, and open corridors.
It was almost like a small village enclosed by mountains.
There were children.
Many.
Some were sitting on wooden benches, reading or talking quietly.
Others ran from one place to another, chased by laughter that didn't sound joyful, but… restrained.
Measured.
We passed by an open field.
And then I saw it.
Training grounds.
Children five years old.
Maybe older.
They didn't have real weapons, I understood that immediately, but they didn't look like simple toys either.
They were wooden weapons: long, medium, and large swords, some too big for their bodies; wooden spears held with both hands; other children practiced with blunt bows or struck hanging sacks again and again, following orders I couldn't hear from there.
Every movement was repeated with precision.
They weren't playing.
They were training.
It felt strange to see children five years and older so focused on something like training.
They weren't playing.
They weren't distracted.
Maybe the world was different here.
Maybe in this place, parents instilled principles from an early age.
Discipline.
Control.
Obedience.
Maybe growing up like that was normal for them.
That thought weighed on me a little…
but I left it for later.
I followed Marta a bit longer, crossing stone paths and open corridors, until we finally reached a building that stood out even among everything else.
The library.
Gigantic.
The word barely did it justice.
From outside, through the enormous windows covering much of the façade, I could see shelves upon shelves filled with books.
Endless rows rising upward, disappearing into the height of the building, as if knowledge here wasn't optional, but a requirement.
I stared at it for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Something stirred inside me.
Nostalgia.
It wasn't immediate.
It wasn't strong.
But it was there.
The library reminded me of endless hours in my past life, hidden among shelves, reading without being bothered, losing myself in pages to avoid thinking about the world.
Back then, books had been a refuge.
A place where no one pointed at me as a mistake.
I kept staring a little longer than I should have.
"Let's go," Marta said suddenly.
Her voice pulled me out of the memory.
She took my hand with a gentle but firm tug.
"Your room is over there."
We went around the library and headed toward the back of the building.
There was a row of rooms aligned one next to another.
Seven in total.
We entered number six.
The interior was simple, but orderly.
There were two separate beds, a small table in the center, a low shelf with a few books already placed, and two wardrobes for clothes.
A window took up much of the back wall.
I stepped closer to look.
It faced the outside of the compound.
Forest.
Nothing but trees, green shadows, and silence.
What caught my attention were the two beds.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't ask.
Marta spoke then, her tone clear, almost mechanical:
"You will stay here until your caretaker is assigned. You are forbidden from leaving the room unless you are accompanied by your caretaker."
I nodded without responding.
Marta turned around and left, closing the door behind her.
I was alone.
Alone with the room.
With the forest beyond the window.
And with the suitcase at my feet.
I had nothing to do.
I looked around the room again, as if something might move on its own, but nothing happened.
The silence remained there, still, heavy.
So I approached the small shelf and picked up one of the books.
It was a book about the planet.
For children.
It seemed silly at first.
Too simple.
Too basic.
Even so, I opened it.
I sat on the back edge of the bed, my back resting against the headboard of the larger one.
The pages were thick, with large illustrations and bright colors.
It talked about mountains, seas, climates, animals.
Things I already knew… or at least remembered from another life.
I started reading.
About ten minutes passed after Marta had left.
I was focused enough to forget where I was for a moment when I heard the door open.
My body reacted on its own.
I snapped the book shut, returned it to the shelf without thinking, and stood up immediately, as if I'd been caught doing something wrong.
The door opened fully.
It was Marta.
"Your assigned caretaker is here," she said in a neutral tone.
"She was sent by Mr. Manuel."
My father.
The thought appeared instantly, automatic, before I could stop it.
As I thought it, someone peeked out from behind Marta.
I lifted my gaze.
She was older than me, but not by much.
Maybe twelve years old.
Or so I thought.
She was taller, slender, with a straight posture, as if she were used to staying alert all the time.
Her hair was ash-light brown, with a tint that under the light almost looked dusty pink.
She had amber eyes, softly golden, and a gentle gaze that was nothing like Lauren's coldness.
She looked at me with curiosity, without harshness.
"Hi," she said.
"My name is Sofía. You must be Mr. Manuel's son, right?"
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to.
The words just wouldn't come out.
Marta spoke for me:
"That's right. He is the son of Mr. Manuel and Mrs. Johana. Sofía, your duty is to take care of him. You are to accompany him whenever he wishes to visit any place within the compound. Understood?"
"Yes, Mrs. Marta," Sofía answered without hesitation.
"Good," Marta said.
"I'll leave you."
She turned to Sofía once more:
"Take your luggage and organize both your clothes and his."
Then she left the room, closing the door behind her.
I stood there.
Alone with her.
Sofía took my suitcase without asking and carried it to one of the wardrobes.
She opened it carefully and began taking out the clothes one by one, folding and placing them as if she already knew where everything went.
Her movements were quick, but not clumsy.
Steady.
Natural.
I remained standing, watching her in silence.
I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know what to say.
So I did nothing.
"How old are you?" she asked suddenly, without stopping what she was doing.
The question caught me off guard.
I blinked a couple of times before answering:
"Three… almost four," I said without much energy.
She turned slightly toward me, smiling openly.
"Really?" she said.
"Then you're two years younger than my little brother."
There was no pity in her voice.
No discomfort.
She sounded… genuinely cheerful.
She went back to what she was doing.
The silence returned, but it wasn't as heavy as before.
A few minutes passed.
I didn't know exactly how many.
And without thinking too much, the words slipped out:
"Do you know my dad?"
Sofía froze for a moment.
She didn't stop folding the clothes, but she slowed down.
"I… met Mr. Manuel a long time ago," she said.
"When I was younger."
She put away a shirt and gently closed the wardrobe.
"I was seven," she added.
"My little brother had just been born. He was five months old."
She didn't smile as she said it.
"Our parents were no longer around," she continued.
"So we were taken to an orphanage."
The word sounded simple.
Like something that shouldn't hurt.
"We stayed there for three years."
She glanced at me, as if making sure I was listening.
"At first it seemed normal," she said.
"We had beds. Food. Adults who said they took care of us."
She paused.
"But they didn't really take care of us."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the clothes.
"That place… used children."
She didn't explain how.
She didn't use difficult words.
"Some were taken away," she continued.
"They said it was because they were useful for other things."
She frowned slightly.
"Others… just stopped being there."
I felt something strange in my chest.
I knew exactly what she meant.
"My brother was very small," she said.
"I was the one who took care of him most of the time."
She looked at me.
"I could use a bit of magic," she added.
"Not much, but enough for them to look at us differently."
The silence stayed between us.
"Then Mr. Manuel, Mrs. Johana, and Liora arrived," she said.
"They shut that place down."
She didn't say how.
She didn't say what they did.
"They took out the children they could," she continued.
"There weren't many."
She lowered her gaze.
"They took us with them."
She took a deep breath.
"Mrs. Johana decided to keep my brother and me," she added.
"She took care of us. Taught us things. Gave us a home."
She closed the wardrobe softly.
"That's why Mr. Manuel trusts me," she said.
"And that's why I'm here with you."
I didn't know what to say.
Everything I had heard felt heavy, even if I didn't fully understand why.
I thought of my home.
Of my mom.
Of Selene.
And without realizing it, I thought something I had never thought before.
Maybe… there were children who had nothing from the very beginning.
Sofía looked at me.
"Did I scare you?" she asked.
I shook my head slowly.
"No," I said.
"I just… didn't know things like that happened."
She nodded.
"They do," she replied.
"That's why they train from a young age here."
She sat on the other bed and gently swung her legs.
"But you're safe here," she added.
"I'll stay with you."
She looked at me and smiled.
A simple smile.
A child's smile.
And even though the place was still cold…
even though I still missed my home…
for the first time since I arrived at the compound, I felt like I wasn't completely alone.