Hernan had always been one of those men who seemed invincible. Business magazines called him “the king of investments,” conferences gave him standing ovations, and photos showed him smiling in front of luxury cars and mansions with perfect gardens. From the outside, his life was a showcase of success: tailored suits, expensive watches, first-class travel. But no one saw what happened behind his bedroom door, when the silence forced him to confront the one absence he couldn’t buy.
That absence had a name: Lorenzo.
His only son, his little playmate, had disappeared a year earlier. There was no note, no call, no explanation. One afternoon he was playing in the garden, near the red swing, and then… nothing. As if the world had swallowed him whole. At first, Hernán moved heaven and earth: he hired detectives, paid rewards, appeared on television, asked the police for help. Over time, the lights went out, the cameras left, the voices grew tired of repeating the same thing: “We’re sorry, there are no new leads.”
He was the only one who kept searching.
That morning, like so many others, he put on the same wrinkled jacket that used to smell of expensive perfume and now only smelled of sleepless nights. He filled the back seat of the car with stacks of posters: Lorenzo’s picture smiling, his big eyes full of life, and below it an almost heart-wrenching message: “WANTED. ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CALL…”. He started the engine with trembling hands and drove away from the elegant neighborhoods he knew by heart.
This time he decided to go where he’d never been before: to the neighborhoods where the streets were narrow, the walls peeling, and the houses stood almost by faith. There, no one looked at him like a millionaire. No one knew about his businesses or his magazine covers. There, he was just a man with bloodshot eyes putting up posters, a father sick with homesickness.
He stopped beside a rusty post and took a deep breath before sticking up another poster. The tape stuck to his fingers, the paper wrinkled, and he tried to smooth it out with a delicacy he no longer possessed. As he smoothed the photo, he whispered almost inaudibly:
—Someone must have seen you, son… someone…
The wind blew hot, stirring up dust and memories. The world seemed to keep turning, no one caring about his pain. Hernán felt ridiculous, small, absurd with that stack of papers in his hand. He was about to move to the next post when he heard a small voice behind him:
—Sir… that child lives in my house.
He froze. His heart, which had been beating wearily for months, leaped so hard it almost took his breath away. He turned slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the illusion, and saw a barefoot girl in a worn dress with enormous eyes. She was looking at him with a mixture of shyness and certainty.
“What… what did you say?” he stammered.
The girl pointed at the sign with her little finger.
—That boy—she repeated, as if she were talking about something completely normal—. Lives with my mom and me.
Hernán’s legs went weak. For a second he thought he was dreaming, that his lack of sleep was playing tricks on him. He crouched down until he was at her level.
“Are you sure?” she asked, trying to control the trembling of her voice. “Are you sure it’s him… this boy here?”
The little girl frowned, looked at the photo carefully, and nodded naturally.
—Yes. He hardly speaks. He draws all the time and cries at night. Sometimes he murmurs things… calls for someone.
“To whom?” The question escaped him like a desperate whisper.
“To his dad,” she replied, unaware that she had just opened a crack in that man’s world.
Hernán felt like he couldn’t breathe. Everything he had repressed for a year suddenly surged in his chest: Lorenzo’s laughter echoing through the hallways, his drawings stuck to the refrigerator, his voice calling him at three in the morning after a nightmare. He had to close his eyes to keep from collapsing right there, in the middle of that unfamiliar street.
“Do you live far from here?” she asked, clinging to that tiny hope like someone clutching a life preserver.
“No, it’s nearby,” the girl replied with a shy smile. “Just around the corner.”
For a moment, Hernán thought about turning around and running away. What if it wasn’t his son? What if it was another child? What if it was a cruel joke of fate? But when he looked again into those childlike eyes, so full of sincerity, he knew he couldn’t back down.
“Could you take me?” she finally asked. “I just… I just want to see him. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave.”
The girl hesitated, biting her lip.
—My mom might get angry…
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to know if it’s my son.”
She looked at him for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Then she nodded slowly, as if a courage she didn’t even know she possessed was awakening within her small chest.
—Okay, follow me.
As they walked through the narrow streets, Hernán felt that each step brought him closer to something that could either save him or completely destroy him. He didn’t know that that afternoon he would not only find his son, but also discover the most painful truth he could have ever imagined.
The girl’s name was Amalia. She walked ahead, light and steady despite being barefoot, dodging puddles and stones like someone who knew every corner of the neighborhood by heart. Hernán followed a few meters behind, his heart pounding in his throat. The suit that had once made him feel powerful now seemed ridiculous in the middle of those humble streets.
“Sometimes he talks about a red swing,” the girl remarked, without turning around. “And about a black car that made a lot of noise.”
Hernán stopped dead in his tracks. The red swing was the one in his backyard, where they had played together so many afternoons. The black car was his. He felt his knees give way.
“It’s him,” she thought, swallowing tears. “It has to be him.”
The path became narrower and narrower until Amalia pointed to a small house with cracked walls and blue-painted windows, the paint peeling off.
—We live there.
Hernán stared at her as if she were the gateway to heaven… or hell. He took a deep breath, loosely adjusted his jacket, and let himself be led to the entrance. The gate creaked as Amalia pushed it open. Inside, a woman was waiting for them in the living room.
Claudia.
Her gaze met Hernán’s as soon as she entered. For a second, she seemed like any other woman: tired, unassuming, with hands marked by work. But as soon as she saw him, something changed in her face. Her eyes widened, a nervous smile tightened her lips, and her fingers clenched as if guarding a secret.
“Good afternoon,” Hernán greeted, trying to remain calm. “I think… I think my son might be here.”
Claudia let out a short, strained laugh.
—Your son? No, you’re mistaken. No other children live here except my daughter.
Amalia took a step forward, confused.
—But Mom, the child…
—Amalia, come in now—the woman ordered with a harshness that froze the air.
The girl stood still, her eyes filled with unease.
“Madam, I beg you,” Hernán insisted. “I just want to see him. For one minute. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave and never come back.”
“I already told you there are no children here,” she replied, crossing her arms. “Go look somewhere else.”
The slam of the door that threw him out echoed throughout the alley. Hernán stood there, facing the closed door, his fists clenched and his soul shattered. He could hear Amalia’s sobs from the other side and the woman’s muffled murmur as she tried to silence her.
