Valeria's breath quickened. The mirror returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. But the envelope was still in her hand, the shaky ink still fresh.
She stepped back… and someone knocked at the door.
A single, sharp knock.
Her heart skipped.
—Valeria? —a man's voice said, firm and warm.
It wasn't Ezra. And it wasn't Ariel.
She rushed to the peephole, hesitating.
The man outside wore a long coat, his face partially hidden in the hallway's shadows. He held something in his hands, wrapped in dark cloth.
—I brought you this —he said—. You… won't remember, but it was yours.
Valeria opened the door, slowly.
He handed her the object. The cloth slipped away, revealing a cloudy glass sphere. Slightly bigger than an apple. Inside… something moved.
A shape. A flicker. An image of herself, sleeping.
—What is this? —she whispered.
—It's what you left behind —he replied—. And what everyone's looking for.
—Who are you? —Valeria asked, without inviting him in.
The man didn't step back. Nor did he look uneasy. He simply watched her with a strange mix of compassion and urgency.
—An old acquaintance. Though you don't remember me.
—You've said that already. But I need more than cryptic lines. How do you know my name? Why do you have this?
She lifted the sphere, still trembling faintly in her fingers. Inside, the image was clearer: her sleeping, but not in her bed. She was somewhere else… a forest.
—Because I've been part of this from the beginning. You forgot—just like they did.
—They?
—Ezra. Ariel. And others who haven't shown up yet.
Valeria shivered.
—What is this thing? A camera? Some kind of trick?
—It's a fragment —he said quietly—. Of your time. Your memory. Of what you were before you broke the cycle.
Valeria stared at him, suspicious.
—That makes no sense. I haven't broken anything.
The man smiled, for the first time.
—Not yet.
Valeria hesitated for a moment. But something in his eyes —that kind of sadness only found in those who've lost too much— disarmed her.
She opened the door just enough.
—Five minutes. No more.
He nodded, silently, and stepped through with a barely perceptible bow.
He didn't sit. He walked slowly through the room, as if he recognized it—even though he had never been there before.
—This place... still smells like you —he murmured.
Valeria ignored the comment.
—What do you know? Why are you looking for me now?
—Because the time is near. And if you don't remember who you were, it'll happen again.
—What will happen again?
The man looked at her. Not with fear, but with a strange kind of tenderness.
—The break. The unraveling. The forgetting.
He stopped in front of a bookshelf, touching one of the books with his fingertips.
—You chose this. But your soul is beginning to doubt.
—Chose what?
But he didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the door. The same one he had crossed just minutes before.
—I can't stay any longer. They'll find me.
—Who?
—Those who still believe you can wake up.
He handed her the sphere, now clearer than ever: Valeria in the forest, surrounded by masked figures. And then… a familiar silhouette among them.
—Remember the name —he said—. And when you see it written again, don't run.
—What name?
But he was already gone. The door closed softly behind him. And the sphere trembled in her hand, as if it knew she had just lost a piece of the puzzle.
The sphere kept trembling in her hand when the phone rang.
It wasn't a saved number, but the country code was familiar. She looked at it twice before answering.
—Valeria?
The voice on the other end was soft, but had that texture —like wrinkled paper trying to smooth itself— that only time and guilt could leave behind.
—Matteo?
The silence was so long she thought she had imagined the name.
—I heard... I heard you're looking for answers. And I think I owe you some.
Valeria stood frozen, as if an invisible spring anchored her to the floor.
—Why now?
—Because I've seen what's inside that sphere, too.
Her stomach twisted.
—You… had it too?
—No. But someone close to me did. And they died not understanding it.
Valeria swallowed hard.
—I'm in Madrid —he continued—. If you want to understand what's happening, you have to come. And don't take too long… Others already know you've found it.
The call ended.
And for the first time, Valeria wished the sphere was broken. But it remained, warm in her hand, like a wound that hasn't bled yet… but threatens to.
The sphere was still in her hand, but now it was just an echo.
The real tremor was in her chest.
Matteo.
Madrid.
His name wasn't an open wound anymore—just one that had healed wrong.
And it only took a spark to make it burn again.
She remembered everything with painful clarity: the way she listened to him talk about art and politics, the way she believed that maybe, in his silences and large hands, she could build something that would last.
One night, sitting on the windowsill, Valeria had said with her heart in her throat:
—I want something real with you, Matteo. I want to truly try.
He hadn't answered right away. He just kissed her forehead, brushed her cheek… and changed the subject.
The next day, he was gone.
No message.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
As if it had all been a mirage that disappeared the moment she reached out.
Weeks later, she found his things in a box.
A book, a shirt, a forgotten note in his handwriting, saying nothing important.
Or maybe it did.
"Where there's no space for one, two don't fit."
Now, years later, his name had returned.
And she didn't know if it was a warning or a curse.
Valeria placed the sphere on the desk as if it burned her.
She opened her laptop.
Typed the full name she still remembered—though she'd never told anyone.
Matteo Bianchi.
Google took less than a second to flood her with results.
Some were old articles about industrial design. Others, features in art magazines.
And one.
Just one.
A personal website, almost hidden among all the digital noise.
Click.
A minimalist page appeared, with a simple header:
"Spaces with soul. Objects that breathe."
Below, a contact address.
And what hurt most: a recent photo. Him, standing next to a lamp he'd clearly designed.
Smiling.
Madrid.
He was still there.
Or had come back. Or maybe he'd never left.
Valeria shut the laptop abruptly.
She got up and paced the room.
Go to Madrid? For what? To ask why he vanished without a word? To place her heart on a table again, unsure if he'd even care to look?
She opened her grandmother's journal, seeking comfort, a sign.
One sentence stood out like the ink was still wet:
"Sometimes we don't return for answers. We return to see if it still hurts."
Valeria took a deep breath.
The hum of the past was now a roar.
And she had to decide whether to follow it to the end.
"Stalking an old crush?" said a teasing but warm voice behind her.
Valeria turned, startled. At the café door, holding a to-go coffee and a smile that hinted at shared memories, stood Clara. It had been years, but her presence was just as magnetic.
"Clara..." Valeria smiled in surprise. "What are you doing in Barcelona?"
"New job. And you... Matteo Bianchi?" she read on the screen before Valeria could lock it. "That guy's still around?"
Valeria chuckled reluctantly.
"It wasn't serious. We went out for like a month… if you can even call it that."
"Yeah, I remember," Clara said, sitting down without asking. "You were into him. He was charming. But he ghosted as soon as things started getting real. Just stopped texting, right?"
Valeria nodded slowly.
"He treated me well… at first. Made it feel like something was there. But the moment I asked for clarity, he vanished."
"Classic Matteo," Clara scoffed. "Loved intensity, hated emotional accountability. I met him too—briefly. He had a way of making you feel special while staying completely noncommittal."
Valeria looked down, thoughtful.
"Are you thinking of going to Madrid?"
"I don't know…" she admitted.
"Then go for you," Clara said, touching her hand. "Not to chase something that was never really there."
Valeria folded her clothes with robotic movements. Part of her was already in Madrid, imagining the sound of trains, the lights of the station, the different air. The other part... was still stuck in that café, in Clara's words: "Do it for you."
The suitcase zipper snapped shut like a decision.
She grabbed her backpack and went down the stairs. She hadn't told anyone she was leaving. No explanations, no promises. She just needed to know what part of this was nostalgia… and what was real.
When she stepped outside, someone was leaning against her car. Sunglasses, arms crossed, that same quiet threat she had learned to recognize.
"Valeria."
Ezra.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, not moving closer.
"You're coming with me," he said like it was a fact.
"To where?"
"You can't go to Madrid. Not now."
She frowned.
"How do you even—?"
"Because they are looking for Matteo too. And if you show up, you'll lead them right to him."
A knot tightened in her stomach.
"Who are they?"
Ezra took off his sunglasses. This time, something had changed in his eyes. A flicker of fear. Real urgency.
"I don't fully know. But there's something about him you didn't see the first time. And if you go now… you might not come back the same."
"Don't tell me what to do, Ezra," Valeria said bluntly.
He didn't move, but his jaw clenched.
"It's not about controlling you. It's about protecting you."
"From what? Someone I knew for a month years ago? Or from whatever you're all hiding?"
Ezra looked away for a second, like he expected that answer—but it still hit hard.
"It's not just Matteo. It's everything that comes with him. There are things you don't know—"
"Of course I don't!" she cut him off. "Because all of you keep treating me like I can't handle the truth."
She stepped closer.
"Maybe you don't trust me, Ezra. But I'm tired of waiting for everyone else to decide what parts of my story I deserve to know."
The tension hung between them like static. Ezra seemed torn between speaking and staying silent. Between shielding her… and letting her go.
"If you cross this line, Valeria, there's no going back."
"I've crossed plenty already. One more won't kill me."
She turned, opened the car door, and started the engine. Ezra didn't stop her. He just stood there, watching her drive away with a mix of admiration… and fear.
Madrid welcomed her with a golden light that seemed to mock her inner chaos.
The train came to a soft metallic stop, and Valeria stepped off with her bag slung across her body, heart clenched, steps both firm and unsure. She hadn't booked a hotel. Hadn't told anyone. All she had was a crumpled address in her back pocket and the echo of a name she wasn't sure she wanted to say again.
Matteo.
The city buzzed nonstop—voices, horns, hurried footsteps. Everything moved quickly, except her. She walked as if every step dragged a ghost. She passed Plaza de Santa Ana, where Matteo once made her laugh until she cried over something silly. The memory hit her uninvited. She didn't know if she wanted to hold it close or spit it out.
She got coffee at a small terrace. Watched people pass by, trying to convince herself this made sense. What if he's not there? What if he doesn't remember? What if… he does?
When she reached the address she'd found, her heart pounded against her ribs. It was an old building, slightly cracked on the outside but with plants hanging from balconies, like someone still cared to beautify the forgotten.
She climbed the stairs slowly. Stood before door 3B.
Breathed deeply.
She was about to knock… when the door opened.
And it wasn't Matteo standing there.
It was a woman. Young, blonde, blue-eyed. She looked surprised.
"Are you looking for Matteo?"
Valeria took a second to answer.
"Yes… does he live here?"
The woman shook her head slowly.
"He left months ago. But he left something for you. Said you'd come… someday."
Valeria could barely speak as the woman stepped aside and invited her in.
The apartment was nearly empty, except for a small table with a withered plant and a closed box on top. The woman, who introduced herself as Lena, didn't seem uncomfortable—but there was something distant in her tone. She looked at Valeria like she knew her, or like she knew too much.
"He didn't talk much about you, but when he did… he talked about how he felt," Lena said, offering her a glass of water.
Valeria didn't reply. Her hands were sweaty. Her eyes locked on the box. But before she could reach for it, a loud thud hit the hallway window.
Both of them turned. No one was there.
Lena pressed her lips together.
"It happens sometimes… this building is old. And not everyone wants certain secrets to come out."
Valeria narrowed her eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Lena said quickly. "But you shouldn't open the box here. Matteo was very clear about that."
The air turned heavier.
"Why not?" Valeria asked, the tight knot in her chest growing.
Lena lowered her gaze and whispered:
"Because you're not alone."
Valeria spun around, scanning the room. Nothing. No one. But her gut screamed that someone else was there. And it wasn't Lena.
She picked up the box carefully, as if it could explode.
"How did you meet him?" she asked, suddenly.
Lena smiled. But it was a broken smile.
"That's another story. And I doubt you're ready to hear it."
Lena smiled, but it was a broken smile. Like someone who had been holding themselves together with someone else's memories for far too long.
Valeria said nothing. She held the box tight against her chest, as if it could somehow hold her together too. The silence in the apartment was thick enough to hear the creaking of wood in the walls.
"Can I open it now?" she asked, barely a whisper.
Lena stared at her for a long moment. Then, she slowly nodded.
"Do it… but if anything changes, if you feel something strange, stop. That box… it's not just his."
Valeria swallowed hard and crouched beside the table. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid.
Inside, there was a mess of random objects: a folded photograph of a distant beach, a lock of hair tied with red thread, a scribbled map with notes, and at the bottom… a black envelope, sealed with cracked wax. Her name was written on it. In blue ink. By hand.
Just as she reached for it, the air shifted.
A cold gust swept through the apartment and extinguished the single lit candle. The light vanished with a soft sigh.
Valeria froze.
"Did you feel that?" she asked into the darkness.
But Lena didn't answer.
Valeria turned her head. Lena was gone.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She shot to her feet, the envelope in hand. She took a step toward the living room—and there was Lena… standing by the window, her back turned, completely still.
"Lena…" Valeria called out.
The woman turned slowly.
"It's not all your fault," Lena said in a strange voice, like she was speaking to someone else. "But some things… they did come for you."
And then, something in Lena's eyes changed. As if she wasn't really Lena.
As if she never truly had been.
Valeria stepped back slowly, clutching the envelope, her breath shallow. The air felt thicker, like the room was shrinking around her.
"Lena?" she called again, but there was no answer. Just the soft sound of wind scraping the windows like it had claws.
Then, a knock.
A single, sharp knock on the door.
Valeria turned, her body taut like a pulled wire. Another knock. Three in total. Calm. Deliberate.
She glanced toward the window—empty. Lena was gone. The curtain still swayed, but the room felt hollow.
She moved toward the door cautiously, pressing her eye to the peephole. A man. Tall. Mid-thirties. Dark coat. And eyes that didn't match his calm demeanor. They looked urgent, almost frantic.
She opened the door a crack.
"Yes?"
He stepped forward, as if he'd been expecting her.
"Valeria, right?"
Her heart stuttered.
"Who are you?"
He glanced down the hallway, then back at her.
"No time for questions. You're being watched. That letter you're holding? It's not safe to read it here."
She clutched it tighter.
"How do you know about the letter?"
He leaned in, voice low.
"Because I was there the night Matteo disappeared. And if you want to know what really happened… you'll have to trust me."
Valeria felt her blood run cold.
"What's your name?" she whispered.
His eyes flickered.
"Ezio."