“I mourned my dead daughter for 5 years, until my ‘perfect’ son-in-law left his phone on my table… The message from his mother turned my blood to ice.”

Elea finished cleaning the remains of dough and beans from the table of her kitchen, in her modest but warm house in the heart of a town in Jalisco.

It had only been 10 minutes since her son-in-law, Mateo, had said goodbye with that impeccable and captivating smile that characterized him. He had stopped by to drop off a bag of sweet bread and ask if she needed anything from the pharmacy.

For five long years, Elea had thanked heaven that her daughter, Sofia, had chosen such a good man before that tragic accident on the road that took her life.

But then, a dry buzzing broke the silence. Mateo had forgotten his cell phone next to the fruit bowl.

Eleпa пo teпía iпteпcióп de mirar. Uпa mЅjer de sпcipios jamás revisaría las cosas ajeпas. Siп embargo, la paпtalla se iЅmiпó de golpe y sЅs ojos se clavaroп eп las letras пegras apntes de qЅe puЅdiera evitarlo.

The clock on the wall was ticking, but for Elea, the whole world stopped at that precise tick.

The message was from a contact saved as “Mama Carmen”, Mateo’s mother, a devout and adoring socialite who had cried buckets at Sofia’s funeral.

The text read: “Go right now, Mateo. Sofia has tried to escape again.”

Elea’s knees trembled almost to the ground. She clung to the edge of the tiled table. The damp cloth slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. A sepulchral chill ran down her spine.

“Again.” Not a, yes, again. His daughter’s name. His Sofia. The same Sofia he had buried five years ago in a closed coffin.

With trembling fingers, Elea took the device. Mateo had been using the same 4-number code for years, the same one Sofia used to make fun of.

He unlocked the screen and felt as if he were crossing a door into the very heart of hell.

There were dozens of recent and old messages. “She’s restless today. Give her half a pill, or the whole thing.” “Chucho already fixed the basement ceiling.”