He showered and dressed in one of his custom-made suits. He drank a strong, black coffee in the mansion’s enormous kitchen, where the cook, Doña Lupe, a 60-year-old woman from Oaxaca who had worked for his family since before he was born, prepared green chilaquiles with chicken that he barely touched. “Are you feeling well, Mr. Ricardo?” Doña Lupe asked, genuine concern in her dark eyes. “I’m fine, Lupe, just tired. Miguel already had breakfast.”
Mrs. Valeria said the boy wasn’t hungry this morning, that he should sleep a little longer. Ricardo frowned. Miguel was always hungry in the mornings; it was the only predictable thing about his routine since the accident. No matter how badly he slept, he always came down for breakfast at 7 o’clock sharp. He always ordered the same pancakes with maple syrup that Elena used to make for him when he was little. “I’m going upstairs to check on him,” Ricardo said, setting his coffee cup down on the black marble of the kitchen island.
Doña Lupe nodded, but there was something in her expression, a shadow of concern that made Ricardo stop. “Is something wrong, Lupe?” The older woman hesitated, her wrinkled hands twisting the white apron she always wore. “It’s not my place to say, Mr. Lupe. You worked for my mother for 30 years. You saw me grow up. If there’s something I need to know, tell me.” Doña Lupe lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper. “Miguel, sir, I’ve noticed he’s very thin lately, and he has dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t been sleeping well.”
I ask him if he’s okay, and he just nods, but he won’t look me in the eye. Before, the boy always told me things, talked about his online classes, the books he was reading. Now he’s so quiet, so very quiet, it’s frightening. Ricardo felt a chill settle in his stomach. “When did you notice the change?” Doña Lupe thought for a moment. “Since Mrs. Valeria came to live here, sir. At first, everything seemed fine, but then little by little, the boy faded away, like a candle slowly burning down until there’s almost no light left.”
Ricardo said nothing more. He climbed the marble staircase with its wrought-iron railing, which had cost a fortune to restore. He passed through the hallway lined with family photographs that now seemed like relics from another life—a time when Elena was alive and his family was whole. He reached Miguel’s room, an enormous suite on the second floor that had been completely adapted to his needs after the accident. An access ramp instead of steps, a bathroom with grab bars, a special bed—everything that money could buy.
He knocked softly on the door. “Miguel, are you awake?” There was no answer. Ricardo slowly opened the door. The room was dark. The thick curtains completely blocked out the sunlight. Miguel was curled up in his bed under the covers. Ricardo turned on the light and approached. The boy didn’t move. “Miguel, son.” His voice was soft, worried. Finally, Miguel slowly turned over, and Ricardo felt his heart sink. His son, his beautiful son, with eyes as green as Elena’s, was as pale as a ghost.
He had deep dark circles under his eyes that made him look ill. His lips were dry and chapped. And when their eyes met, Ricardo saw something in Miguel’s eyes he had never seen before. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. “Are you okay? Are you feeling unwell?” Ricardo asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Miguel shook his head quickly, but said nothing. “Lupe says you didn’t want breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?” “I’m not hungry,” Miguel whispered hoarsely, as if he had been crying for hours.
Ricardo reached out to touch his son’s forehead, but Miguel instinctively flinched as if expecting to be hit. That movement, that reflexive flinch, made something break inside Ricardo. “What’s wrong, Miguel? What’s happening?” “Nothing, Dad. I’m fine, just tired. I heard screams last night, screams that sounded like they were coming from you.” Miguel’s eyes widened, filled with panic. “It was a nightmare, just a nightmare. It sounded like they were coming from the basement.”
“No,” Miguel said too fast, too loudly. “I didn’t go to the basement. I never go to the basement.” “I didn’t say you went to the basement,” Ricardo said slowly, watching every microexpression on his son’s face. “I said the screams seemed to be coming from there.” Miguel squeezed his eyes shut, as if he wanted to disappear. “It was a nightmare, Dad. That’s all. Now, please, let me sleep. I’m so tired.” Ricardo wanted to press him. He wanted to shake his son and demand he tell the truth, but just then he heard footsteps in the hallway.
Valeria appeared in the doorway, already dressed in designer sportswear. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless. “Good morning. What’s going on here?” “I was checking on Miguel. He seems sick.” Valeria entered the room with that feline grace of hers, that way of moving that had always fascinated Ricardo. “Poor thing, it must be a cold. I’ll take care of him, my love. You have that important meeting at 9 with the investors from Monterrey. You can’t be late.” Ricardo looked at his watch.
It was 8:15. The meeting was crucial to finalizing the merger. Investors were flying in from Monterrey specifically for this meeting. “But I need to make sure that Miguel—I’ll take care of it,” Valeria repeated firmly, placing her hand on Ricardo’s shoulder. “I’m going to call Dr. Ramírez to come and check on him. Everything will be fine. Go to your meeting. We’ll be okay, right, Miguel?” Miguel nodded without looking at his father. Ricardo stood there, torn between his responsibilities as a businessman and his paternal instinct, which screamed that something was terribly wrong.
Finally, with a heavy heart, he leaned down and kissed Miguel’s forehead. “I’ll be back early today. We’ll talk, okay?” Miguel didn’t answer; he just turned away and pulled the covers over himself. Ricardo left the room with a knot in his stomach that didn’t go away all the way to his office in Santa Fe. The meeting was a success. They finalized the last details of the merger. The investors signed the papers. Everyone was happy.
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