Chapter 1 The River Man

The rain had stopped, but the earth remained soft, as if refusing to let go. The mud covered his feet, sticky, as if trying to hold him a little longer before letting go. Elias struggled forward, his arms covered in scratches, his muscles tense, his chest burning with each breath.

He had been running for hours. Or maybe days. Time in the forest isn't measured like it is in the world of clocks. The undergrowth had broken his skin, insects buzzed as if they knew his story. He didn't know if they were chasing him or escorting him.

Suddenly, the trees parted toward a bend in the river. Clean water. Fluid. Like a promise. Elias dropped to his knees and clumsily reached inside, drinking desperately. He felt if he closed his eyes now, he'd never open them again. His fingers stirred the gravel as if searching for something buried there. Something long lost. The engine of a pickup truck roared in the distance.

A figure was approaching along the dirt road: a dark, double-cab vehicle, sliding with difficulty through the mud. The driver-an older, gray-haired man, alone-seemed unaware of the half-fallen log blocking the path.

Elías scrambled to his feet, unsteady.

"Watch out!" he shouted, but his voice cracked, barely a whisper in the humid air.

He ran without thinking. He just reacted. The log gave way, the tire scraped him, the pickup truck became unstable. Elías arrived just in time to open the driver's door, pull the man out, and roll with him down the slope. There was a loud bang, followed by the screech of metal hitting a rock.

Silence.

Then, only the steady sound of the river.

A memory clouded his mind:

Run.

A faceless voice. A hand pushing him in the darkness.

Don't look back.

The creaking of a metal door. The smell of confinement: old oil, rancid dampness, dried blood.

A chain dragging. A stifled scream.

And then... nothing.

The man he'd saved was breathing heavily. His shirt was torn and his forehead was bloody, but he was conscious. He sat up slowly, dazed. He looked at Elías as if he didn't know if he was seeing a boy... or a ghost.

"What's your name?"

Elías remained silent. Not out of distrust. But because the question pierced him. As if naming himself would betray something he didn't yet fully remember.

"You don't have to say it," the man added, his voice softer. "But you saved my life. And you don't forget that."

It wasn't a common pattern. It showed in the way he looked at him, without arrogance or pity. As if he, too, had been on the brink, once.

"Do you have a place to sleep?"

Elías shook his head, barely a movement.

"Then come with me."

They traveled in silence along a narrow road. The truck was still moving, albeit with a broken headlight and a dented body. Elías was in the back seat, wrapped in a blanket the man found among the tools. Outside, the trees passed slowly, in a blur. Inside, the air smelled of dampness, cheap cigarettes, and freshly turned mud.

"You're strong," the driver said, without taking his eyes off the road. "Few people throw themselves into the mud for a stranger."

Elías didn't answer. He clung to the blanket as if it kept him connected to his body. As if the cold didn't come from outside.

"My name is Renato. Renato Altamirano."

The name meant nothing to him. Or not yet.

Renato took a deep drag before continuing:

"I don't know where you're coming from, but if you're looking for an opportunity... I can give you one."

Elías looked up. He watched him from the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark, full of tiredness. And empty.

"Why?"

Renato glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't respond immediately. He slowed down as he approached a curve and muttered, as if talking to himself:

"Sometimes you help someone you don't know... because you couldn't save someone you did."

The house was large and quiet. The warm lights contrasted with the humid night. Elías entered as if he were treading on forbidden territory. The room assigned to him was modest, but clean. A made bed. A towel. Freshly baked bread on a plate. Hot water in a jug. No one asked his name. No one tried to touch him.

He stood for a few seconds, not knowing whether to sit down, sleep, or run away. Then he slowly took off his shirt. On his back, the scars stretched out like a map of the unspoken. They didn't seem recent. But they weren't distant either.

He approached the bathroom mirror. He looked at himself. Something about his face seemed alien. As if it weren't yet his. As if he were occupying a borrowed body.

And then, from a dark corner of his memory, or his conscience, arose a soft, almost childlike voice that barely whispered:

You are nobody.

Elías lowered his gaze. He didn't respond. But inside him, something was beginning-very slowly-to awaken.