My name is Elena Robles. I was 65 that year. My husband, Ricardo, was 68, and we had lived in that house for more than four decades. Long enough for the walls to hold our birthdays, our arguments, our grief, and all the ordinary silences that become a marriage after enough time has passed.
That night, our son Mateo asked us to come downstairs because he said there was dampness near the foundation.
His voice was polite.
Too polite.
Mateo had only ever sounded that careful when he was hiding something.
The basement bulb buzzed overhead, throwing weak yellow light across the concrete. The air smelled of moisture, dust, and old paint. The second my shoes touched the floor, something inside me tightened.
