The car moved slowly through the city.
No one was talking inside the Mercedes.
Pedro was asleep in the seat.
Luke and Matthew were sitting together, embracing.
They looked at everything with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
The city lights were reflected in her green eyes.
Patricia’s eyes.
Eduardo gripped the steering wheel.
His mind was filled with memories.
The hospital.
The doctors.
The doctor’s cold voice.
—We’re sorry, Mr. Fernández.
—There were complications.
—His wife did not survive.
The pain had been so great that she barely remembered the rest.
—The baby is alive.
—But he was the only one.
The only one.
That phrase had been with him for five years.
And now…
Two children identical to his son had just appeared in the trash.
They arrived at the mansion.
Luke and Matthew were paralyzed when they saw her.
They had never seen a house like that.
Peter took them by the hand.
—We live here.
They entered.
The maid almost dropped a tray when she saw them.
—Sir… those children…
—Prepare food for them —Eduardo said—. And clothes.
The children ate as if every bite were a miracle.
But Lucas kept looking at Eduardo.
As if he were trying to understand something.
Later, when Pedro fell asleep, Eduardo called his lawyer.
—I need to find someone.
—Marcia Roldán.
The silence on the other end of the phone was brief.
“We thought he was dead,” the lawyer replied.
—Well, find it.
The answer arrived three days later.
Marcia lived.
In a small town.
Far.
Very far.
Eduardo traveled the next day.
He found her in a small house.
When she opened the door and saw him, her face went pale.
—Eduardo…
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