Margarita lost focus all of a sudden.

That morning, in particular, her stomach churned and her thoughts boiled over, a restless cauldron of memories, people, old wounds, postponed dreams.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Oh no..." she whispered, her legs giving way beneath her, nerves unraveling at the mere thought that something—anything—could be lurking outside.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Death. She could swear it was death knocking at the door, coming to claim what had been stolen.

In the distance, muffled cries—outside her small house, the wail of a woman in agony calling her name.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The child peeked through the bedroom door.

"Don't open it."

The child shrugged.

Outside, silence fell.

Then, a faint jingle—a bell, ringing from nowhere.

Something deep inside the boy stirred, an instinct beyond his body, beyond himself. He darted out of the room and flung the door open, leaving her behind.

Margarita watched, breath hitching, bracing herself for the pain that she knew was coming.

The figure at her doorstep trembled.

"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. Is it true... that you can find what's lost?"

...

"I'm so sorry, I truly am..." The woman clung to the doorframe, her body shaking as sobs overtook her. "It's just that... I just... need to find my little girl. That's all."

Inside the room, three pairs of unseen footsteps began their slow, circling march.

Beyond the door, heavy storm clouds gathered, darkening with the promise of the tempest to come.