The metallic sound of the padlock sounded a “click” and suddenly all the noises upstairs disappeared. All that remained was the musty smell and the faint yellowish light that illuminated the small warehouse under the garage.

Doña Carmen leaned against the cold brick wall, still trembling from the push of her daughter-in-law—Isabel—as she shouted,
“You only ate a piece of chicken and you have no consideration! Below here you will think well about your attitude!”

Beside her, Don Ricardo, her husband, stood motionless like a statue. Perhaps the fact of being locked up by his own son for such a trivial matter had left him speechless.

Above, the footsteps of Eduardo—the son Carmen and Ricardo had raised with so much effort—along with Isabel’s, were receding. When absolute silence reigned, Don Ricardo cleared his throat:

“Carmen… come here. I need to tell you something.”

He rarely called his wife by her name with such gravity. Carmen looked at him, puzzled:
“What’s wrong? At this time still…”

Don Ricardo looked around, leaned over to her, and whispered,
“Behind that brick wall… There’s something that’s tormented me for thirty-nine years.”

Carmen felt a chill run through her body. That wall, old and with peeling paint, only served to prevent humidity. He had cleaned the warehouse countless times and had never noticed anything strange.

“What do you say? What’s here?”

Don Ricardo swallowed, showing a fear that Carmen had never seen in such a serene man:
“Let’s wait until they leave completely.”

Minutes later, when no noise could be heard above, Ricardo pushed an old wooden trunk aside and knelt by the wall. He pulled out a brick, as if he had known every crack and crevice forever.

Carmen watched him, without blinking.

When the brick fell, it revealed a small dark gap. From there, Ricardo took out a brown cloth bag, worn out by the years, tied with a rope.

He placed the bag on the cement floor, his hands trembling.

Carmen whispered,
“What have you kept here for thirty-nine years?”

He took a deep breath, as if he had to summon all the value of his life:
“It is what made me a silent and patient man… to the point of allowing our son to treat me like this today.”

He opened the bag. A smell of old paper escaped. Inside were black-and-white photos, some letters in faded ink, and a baby bracelet.

Carmen was paralyzed:
“Whose …?”

Ricardo’s voice broke:
“From our first son.”

Carmen’s heart tightened.
“You… you always said that he had died at birth… the doctor said…”

He shook his head, tears streaming down his wrinkles:
“No. He didn’t die. I… I allowed them to take him away.”

Carmen opened her eyes, incredulous.
“Why did you do something like that?”

Don Ricardo covered his face with both hands, trembling:
“In those times we were very poor… I was drowning in debt for a stupid mistake. They threatened me… they said that if he did not give up the baby, they could hurt Carmen and him. I signed the papers thinking that one day I would find him… But the clues were lost. Thirty-nine years… I lived with a guilt that consumed me.”

Carmen burst into tears. His crying echoed throughout the warehouse, choked and anguished.

Suddenly, from the top floor, the door was heard opening—Eduardo and Isabel were returning.

Don Ricardo took Carmen’s hand:
“If today they locked us up here… Maybe fate gives us a chance to tell the truth before it’s too late.”

Carmen looked at her ungrateful son and remembered all the years she had carried and cared for him. A mixture of pain, anger, but also a spark of hope that she had never felt before was ignited within her.

A lost son.
A child lost in life.
A treacherous son.

And in front of her, the man with whom she had shared decades cried like a child.

Carmen squeezed his hand. For the first time, he was about to ask a question that also terrified him:
“Where… Where is our son, if he is still alive?”

Don Ricardo looked at Carmen, his eyes red:
“I have an address. It’s the only clue we have left…”

At that moment, the “click” of the lock was heard.
Someone was opening the warehouse.