Some time had passed since Melissa was admitted to the psychiatric hospital to recover from the trauma. Apparently, therapy had worked—her improvement was remarkable.

  She was discharged quickly. She was ready to return to a normal life.

  However, her doctor gave her devastating news: her parents had died just a few days earlier, and the police were investigating the circumstances, as the causes remained unclear.

  The pain was unbearable.

  Even the doctors feared she might relapse.

  But something had changed in Melissa during her time in the hospital.

  Her attitude toward pain and loss was no longer the same. She no longer gave in to anxiety or fear. On the contrary—she seemed calm, determined... almost cold.

  She requested to see her parents' bodies to say goodbye.

  She also asked to return to her house one last time.

  Being a minor with no close relatives, she was sent to a foster home.

  There, a woman named Fermina, around sixty-five, would care for her until she reached adulthood and finished her studies.

  The house was old and poorly maintained.

  It didn’t seem to receive much help from the government or any NGO, but it still managed to stay afloat and provide shelter to orphaned children.

  Fermina was responsible for three teenagers between the ages of 15 and 17—Pedro, Juliana, and Christian—and a ten-year-old girl named Susan.

  They had all arrived under tragic circumstances, pushed there by misfortune.

  There were two empty rooms, ready to welcome new members: one for a teenage girl recently discharged from a psychiatric hospital after losing her parents, and one for an eleven-year-old boy who would arrive four days later, also the victim of a similar story.

  Melissa arrived with hopeful expectations.

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  She settled into her room and tried to adapt to the environment.

  Fermina was strict, and her rules made it clear: meals, baths, and bedtime had set schedules.

  No wandering around the house at night. No noise after 10 PM. Lights had to be off at a set time.

  As expected, Joan arrived a few days later.

  The boy came in with his head down, looking sad.

  He hadn’t been allowed to see his parents or sister before the burials.

  He also wasn’t told the cause of their deaths.

  At school, they informed him he could no longer attend due to lack of funding, and that during the school break, he would be transferred to a foster home.

  The taxi dropped him off just past eight in the evening. It was raining. It was cold.

  When the car stopped in front of the house, Joan asked the driver if it was the right address.

  The man, barely able to see through the rain, replied indifferently: it was the address he had been given, and this was where the boy was supposed to stay.

  Without another word, he drove off.

  The entrance to the house was dark, the garden overgrown with tall grass.

  There were no other houses nearby.

  The air smelled strange—almost nauseating.

  Joan was left alone.

  He knocked on the door, hoping someone would answer.

  Nothing.

  He tried not to panic.

  He grabbed the handle, and the door creaked open easily.

  Maybe they left it open for me, he thought, feeling a slight wave of relief.

  Inside, the house was pitch black.

  The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet.

  He wasn’t sure whether to close the door or leave it open.

  He looked around.

  Then, in one of the side hallways, he saw a figure.

  It looked like a person… slowly walking toward him.

  Joan began to tremble.

  The figure picked up its pace, moving faster, more determined.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and a buzzing sound—like a furious wind—filled the house.

  “Hello?” he managed to whisper, his voice shaking.

  Then another voice answered—sweet and warm:

  “Hi there! You must be Joan, right?”

  He turned to the right.

  There she was—a girl standing on the staircase, smiling, waving at him.

  Joan glanced back at the hallway.

  The shadowy figure vanished into the darkness.

  “What’s wrong? Oh! You must be cold. Come with me, I’ll show you your room.”

  Still frightened, Joan felt a strange sense of peace near the girl.

  There was something in her voice that soothed him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Her smile grew even warmer as she replied:

  “You’re right—we haven’t introduced ourselves.

  My name is Melissa. Nice to meet you.”