The ambulance arrived too late.
Daniel Cortez was pronounced dead at 8:47 a.m.—but the numbers he gave her were all Valeria could think about.
4. 6. 7.
Coordinates. She was sure of it. She cross-checked them with her digital map.
It pointed to a remote area just outside the city, near the woods. No houses. No roads. Just trees, silence… and something waiting.
But before she left, something about the number 7 triggered a memory. A locked drawer in her apartment she hadn't opened in years—her mother's things.
She opened it with a spare key.
Inside, faded photographs, a notebook with names she didn't recognize… and a childhood drawing.
Four stick figures.
One of them was circled in red. Above it, a name: Valeria.
Next to it, the number 7.
She stared at it, heart pounding.
Why would her mother write that?
She flipped through the notebook. Page after page of notes. Research. Names of children. Birthdays. Disappearances.
And one sentence repeated over and over:
> "She is the seventh. She must never remember."
Valeria's hands shook. Her mother had known something. Something she was never meant to find.
Still reeling, she got in her car and drove to the coordinates.
After an hour of dirt roads and fog-covered trees, she found it.
An old wooden house, hidden deep in the forest.
The windows were boarded. The front door was ajar. It looked abandoned—except for the faint glow of a light inside.
Valeria stepped out of the car and approached.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Inside, a table with four chairs. Each one had a number carved into the wood.
1. 2. 3.
The fourth chair was missing.
A voice echoed from the shadows:
> "You finally came back, Valeria."
She turned.
And saw a woman she hadn't seen in 20 years.
> Her mother.