The sun no longer burned, but still clung to the sky with a stubborn golden glow. Valeria walked down a tree-lined street, jacket slung over one arm and her hair still damp from the shower. She had no destination—she just wanted to feel the world beyond her four walls.
In the distance, the sound of a street saxophone floated through the air, like an old whisper. She stopped in front of a small bookstore tucked between two brick buildings. She didn't know why she went in. Maybe just to escape herself for a few more minutes.
Inside, the scent of old paper and ink wrapped around her like a warm caress. She walked between the shelves, not looking for anything in particular. Until a book fell. On its own. From a high shelf. And it wasn't the sound that made her shiver, but the title: "What the Skin Hides."
She picked it up, heart pounding. When she opened it, a dried flower fell from its pages. A blue flower. Just like the one she kept in the box that sometimes appeared at the foot of her bed.
She wasn't alone. She felt the presence before she saw it. When she turned, a man with grey eyes was already watching her from the end of the aisle. As if he knew her. As if he'd been waiting.
Valeria's hand was still shaking as she turned to face him. The sun burned on the sidewalk, but the air between them felt different—dense, restrained, almost electric.
"Sorry," she said, not sure why she was apologizing. Maybe for bumping into him. Maybe for staring like she knew him.
He looked at her with a kind of intensity that was both unsettling and magnetic. He wasn't conventionally handsome, but something in his eyes—dark gray, almost metallic—looked like it had seen too much.
"It wasn't your fault," he said, voice low and gravelly, like the words weighed something. "Sometimes things cross paths… even when they shouldn't."
Valeria blinked, confused. The phrase sounded strangely familiar. Her instinct screamed for her to step back, but her feet wouldn't move.
"Do I know you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer.
He didn't reply. His eyes dropped to the box she held—one of the ones she had picked up from her grandmother's apartment.
"That box…" he murmured, brow furrowing slightly. "You're not supposed to have it yet."
A chill ran down her spine. How did he know what it was?
"Who are you?" she asked, this time more firmly.
But instead of answering, he stepped back, like he had already said too much. Then he gave her a look filled with unbearable sadness and whispered:
"Be careful what you open."
And he left. As if the air closed behind him. As if he had never been there.
Valeria didn't move. She looked down at the box in her hands. Closed. Harmless. But for the first time… she was afraid of what might be inside.
Valeria got home with the box clutched tightly to her chest. She didn't open it. Not yet.
She placed it on her desk, trembling like it was a bomb she didn't know how to defuse, and headed straight to the kitchen. She needed coffee. Or wine. Or to vanish.
"Another box?" her mother asked from the living room, eyes still fixed on the TV.
"Yes. It was grandma's."
"And what are you doing with that? Those things belong in storage."
Valeria sighed. Every conversation with her mother felt like walking on glass. There was always something hidden, a judgment tucked between the lines.
"I'm helping her sort things out." A half-truth. Her grandmother no longer remembered what was in those boxes… but she did remember the fear of anyone opening them.
"You should be sorting your life instead," her mother said with a smile so fake it stung more than a slap. "Thirty years old and still no decent partner."
Valeria clenched her jaw. That same old tune again.
"I'm fine as I am."
"Of course you are," her mother replied, standing with cold elegance. "But a woman alone is always in danger. Or worse… she gets used to not needing anyone."
Valeria didn't answer. It wasn't worth it. But something inside her sparked—a flicker that had been waiting for an excuse to ignite.
She went back to her room. Closed the door. Sat in front of the box.
The lid was still sealed with old, yellowing tape. But now it looked… tighter. As if something inside had heard the conversation.
Valeria took a deep breath.
And cut the tape.
The sound of the tape tearing was louder than she expected. Like a whisper that had waited years to be heard.
Valeria carefully lifted the lid. Inside, everything was neatly arranged, as if someone had wanted to preserve not just the objects, but the story behind them. Folded papers, black-and-white photographs, a porcelain doll with a crack on its cheek… and at the bottom, a velvet-covered notebook, worn by time.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out. There was no name on the cover. Only one golden letter, embossed: "A."
She opened it.
The first few pages were blank. But on the fourth, the writing began. It wasn't her grandmother's. Nor her mother's. It was older. More elegant. As if each stroke had been written with a quill dipped in secrets.
"Sometimes, mirrors don't show who we are… but what we hide."
Valeria shivered. She turned the pages one by one, finding scattered phrases, cryptic notes, strange symbols drawn in the margins. Until she reached a page with a date:
"June 8, 1981."
And a name written in smudged ink:
"Ariel."
The same name she'd heard in the café.
Her heart skipped a beat.
That box… that journal… wasn't just part of her grandmother's past.
It was part of her own.
When Valeria touched the bottom corner of the journal, she felt something loose. A tiny bump beneath the last page. Carefully, she lifted the paper and found a small, rusted key, tied with a red thread.
It was absurdly small. Like the kind for a music box, or an antique chest. She held it in her palm and felt a slight tingling in her fingers. Something electric. Instinctive.
Next to the key, almost hidden between the pages, was a newspaper clipping—yellowed and brittle with age. The headline was barely readable, but two words were underlined in blue ink:
"Mysterious fire."
And below it, a blurry photo of a house blackened by flames. At its base, a woman wrapped in a blanket… with the same eyes Valeria had seen in old photos of her grandmother.
Her throat tightened. What did that woman, that fire, have to do with Ariel? And with her?
Suddenly, the room felt colder. As if the story—her story—was about to open a door that was never meant to be touched.
Valeria slipped the key into her pocket. She knew she wouldn't sleep that night. She knew, sooner or later, she was going to find the lock it belonged to.
The silence in the room was thick, as if even the air had paused to watch her. Valeria still held the clipping in her hand, the key burning in her pocket, when she heard a sharp knock at the door.
Just one knock. Firm. Too precise to be accidental.
—Valeria? —Her mother's voice filtered in like an anxious whisper—. Are you okay?
She took a moment to respond. Her instinct was to slip the journal under the pillow.
—Yeah, I'm just... just reading.
The door opened slightly—just enough to reveal her mother's face. But what she saw in her eyes wasn't concern. It was... fear?
—Don't open that box —she said, without even glancing at the bed—. Please don't open it.
Valeria felt a chill crawl down her spine.
—What box are you talking about?
Her mother hesitated. She stepped into the room, but then stopped—as if something invisible was holding her back.
—That box... it's always been there. It's better not to touch what sleeps.
And with nothing else, she closed the door.
Valeria sat frozen. The clipping still in her hand, and that phrase echoing in her chest.
It's better not to touch what sleeps.
The front door opened without warning.
Valeria jumped up, still holding the journal in her hands, the box lying open at her feet like she had just committed a crime.
"Hello?" The voice was deep, low… and unfamiliar.
A man appeared at the entrance of the living room. He wore a dark jacket, his hair slightly damp as if he'd just walked under the blazing sun, and a gaze that didn't flinch—neither at seeing her surprised nor at the open box at her feet.
"Sorry," he said, his accent unplaceable. "I'm looking for Lucía."
Valeria took a few seconds to reply. Her heart pounded. Lucía? How did he know that name?
"Lucía… doesn't live here anymore," she finally said, her voice low but steady.
The man nodded slowly, as if he already knew… or as if he was waiting for her to say something else. He took a few steps inside, his eyes landing on the open journal.
"Then you must be Valeria."
She stepped back. The air thickened. He noticed.
"Don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Who are you?"
The man smiled—but it wasn't a kind smile. It was one that hid far more than it revealed.
"Let's just say… I'm someone also looking for answers."
"How do you know my name?" Valeria asked, not stepping away from where she stood.
The man glanced at a dusty shelf with an old black-and-white photo. Lucía was in it, much younger, her eyes lit with a joy Valeria could barely recall.
"Lucía and I… we were friends a long time ago," he said, with strange pauses between each word.
"Friends?"
"Almost family."
Lie. She felt it like a chill running up her spine. That answer didn't fit. Nor did the way he avoided eye contact, or how his fingers tightened slightly when he saw the open journal.
"So why did you come today?"
"An old promise. Some things you don't forget."
"And the box?" she asked, firmer now. "Did you know it was there?"
Silence stretched for a few beats. Then the man lifted his eyes, locking them with hers.
"That box isn't just yours, Valeria. And neither is the journal."
Her knees weakened.
"What do you know about this?"
"Just enough to warn you: there are things Lucía tried to hide… not just from the world, but from you."
There it was. Not just his tone, but the way he said it—like he too had carried a secret for years, and now, for some reason, it was about to spill out.
Valeria blinked—and when her eyes opened again, he was gone.
"He left?" she whispered to herself, stepping slowly into the hallway. The silence was total. No door had creaked. No shadow had moved through the room.
The air felt heavier now… thicker. As if time itself had slowed down. Her own breathing was the only sound that remained.
And then she saw it.
On the corner of the couch, where he had been sitting, there was a small object wrapped in dark cloth. She approached it cautiously, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, as if trying to warn her.
She unfolded the cloth.
An old locket. The kind that opens in two. Inside, a tiny photo: Lucía… holding a baby.
And behind the image, a single word etched in aged, tarnished metal:
"Truth."
Valeria took a step back. Her fingers trembled. It wasn't just the photo. It was the date printed in the corner: 1994.
That year… it was impossible.
Because Valeria had been born in 1995.
Valeria closed the locket with a quiet click. She had no idea how long she had been standing there, the photo burning her fingers like a brand.
She tucked the object deep into her backpack, making sure no one would find it. Not even herself, unless she made a conscious decision to search for it.
She walked toward the window. Outside, the sun still shone with its usual indifference, as if the world hadn't just tilted beneath her feet.
She couldn't ask Lucía. Not yet. Not without proof. The picture, the date… it could be a mistake, a coincidence. Or maybe not.
She glanced at the open box on her bed. For the first time, it didn't look empty. Even though it contained nothing else, the simple fact of finding something out of place… changed everything.
That night, while everyone else slept, she turned on her desk lamp and began writing in her notebook.
"Sometimes, the past shows up disguised as a forgotten object. Other times, it sits on your couch and stares at you with eyes you recognize but can't explain."
Below it, she wrote one word:
"1994."
And next to it, underlined twice:
"Who am I really?"