Chapter 3 - The Door at the End of the Hall
The journey from the luxurious Imperial Reforma Hotel to the cramped alleyways near La Merced market took less than twenty minutes by car, but for Alejandro, it felt like descending through the circles of an endless, suffocating purgatory.
He drove his black SUV himself, leaving his personal driver behind. In the passenger seat, Sofía had finally exhausted her tears. Wrapped tightly in Alejandro’s heavy wool overcoat—which swallowed her small frame entirely—she lay curled against the center console, breathing softly in a deep, weary sleep. Every rise and fall of her chest was a reminder of three lost years, three years of stolen Christmases, forgotten birthdays, and empty plates.
Alejandro’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel. His mind raced through a storm of guilt and disbelief. How could he have been so blind? How had he believed the lie that Lucía simply walked away? Because it was easier. Because his mother had planted the poison carefully, feeding his ego with reminders of his hard work, telling him that a successful man didn't need a fragile, weeping wife who couldn't handle the pressures of high society.
“She left you because she couldn't keep up, Alejandro. She wanted a quiet, miserable life, and she took the child to punish you,” his mother’s voice echoed mockingly in his memory.
He parked the SUV in a narrow, dimly lit alleyway where the pavement was cracked and glistening with stagnant water from a broken municipal pipe. Towering concrete tenements loomed overhead like decaying monuments, their paint peeling away to expose damp, gray brick. The air smelled of rotting fruit from the nearby market stalls mixed with exhaust fumes and damp earth.
Alejandro stepped out of the vehicle, the cool night air hitting his face. He carefully lifted Sofía from the passenger seat, cradling her against his chest so her face remained buried away from the grimy surroundings.
“We’re here, princess,” he murmured softly, kissing the top of her messy braid.
Following Sofía’s sleepy directions whispered earlier in the car, he walked past a row of rusted metal gates, navigated a narrow, open-air staircase dripping with laundry water, and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door at the very end of a dark, second-floor corridor.
The door was warped, its green paint flaking off in dry scales. At the bottom, a sodden, muddy towel was wedged tightly beneath the gap to keep the drafts and rainwater from flooding inside.
Alejandro’s heart pounded against his ribs with a force he hadn't felt since his early days building his company from the ground up. He knocked. Once. Twice.
Inside, there was a faint sound of shuffling feet, followed by the metallic click of a rusted chain lock sliding across its track.
The door creaked open a few inches, held back by a safety chain. A pale, thin face appeared through the gap.
Lucía.
Time had carved deep, hollow shadows beneath her large, dark eyes. Her once-vibrant hair, long and thick, was now cut short and tied back carelessly with a piece of string. She wore an oversized, faded gray sweater that hung loosely over her frail frame. Her hands, holding the edge of the door, were red and rough, bearing the undeniable marks of endless scrubbing and hard labor.
When her eyes met Alejandro’s through the narrow gap, the color drained entirely from her face. She stopped breathing. The door trembled in her hand.
May you like
“Alejandro…?” she whispered, her voice cracking like dry timber. It was a sound so fragile that it barely sounded human.
Alejandro couldn't speak. The words caught in his throat, thick and heavy. He simply reached out with his free hand, pushed the heavy door gently against the chain until it snapped with a sharp metallic pop, and stepped into the small, damp room where his wife and daughter had been buried alive by his own family.
