Fifty-six days had passed since that terrible moment—since she had watched the life drain from her husband while searching for Luisito in the crowd, feeling her own soul slipping away.

Now, Margarita stared at that strange poster, the one that seemed to haunt her no matter which way she turned.

"Mystic Theater. Only for the desperate."

Instead of covering it up, with glue dripping between her fingers and the rolled-up posters tucked under her arm, she looked up at the sky and saw an enormous full moon pulling at her with its pale glow, offering a kind of peace her mind could no longer reach.

How could she ever find peace?

Her son hadn't just disappeared.

No!

Her son had been stolen.

Even if no one knew what had happened, what other explanation could there be? Isidro's death, the child's disappearance, the massive, aching absence that had hollowed out Margarita until she was nothing but a machine—breathing only because she could not stop the air from filling her lungs, her heart from beating, her blood from flowing.

God...

God...?

Drained, Margarita collapsed to her knees once again, just as she had so many times before, sobbing uncontrollably.

The glue spilled onto the dirt, and the posters with her son's face scattered into the wind, carried away in the gusts that raged against the ghost of a mother who refused to cease existing.

She looked up at the sky again, begging, pleading for mercy. The light of the full moon bathed her, and the blanket of stars shimmered above. A warm drowsiness spread from within her, and she let herself fall, resting her weight on her calves. Her hands sank into the dirt, her fingers clenching into fists as she turned her weeping into a raw, guttural wail.

"LUIS...!"

A slap.

The impact struck her across the face as her cry ended—jarring her, knocking her off balance, forcing her to stop.

It was the kind of slap people give to snap someone out of shock.

But this was no hand.

It was a paper, carried by the wind, now stuck to her cheek.

Margarita, stunned, froze.

Slowly, with the defeated stillness of the utterly broken, she peeled the sheet away from her face, her skin still stinging from the blow.

She read the words.

She couldn't believe it.

"Mystic Theater. Every Thursday at midnight. Calle de las Ratas, No. 4. Only for the desperate."

As if under a spell, gripped by pure desperation, as though her very life depended on it, Margarita rushed toward the city center.

Her frantic steps made her stumble like a puppet on invisible strings, pulling her, dragging her down winding streets until she reached the address.

At the entrance stood a strange woman, her long, straight, white hair flowing over her shoulders.

"Welcome."

"I... um..."

"My master is expecting you."

"But I—"

The enigmatic woman stepped aside, granting her passage.

And the moment she crossed the threshold, warmth washed over her.

A rich, intoxicating scent filled the air.

For the first time in days—maybe weeks—she wanted to step forward.

The moment her foot touched the checkered floor of the hallway, the warmth of the orange-tinted light erased the miserable cold she hadn't even realized she was carrying.

Her teeth stopped chattering.

And she became aware—acutely, painfully aware—of how lost she had been.

At the end of the corridor, framed by towering columns, a woman awaited her.

She was beautiful.

Barely more than a girl.

Long, straight black hair cascaded down her back.

She watched Margarita approach.

Standing at the threshold, Margarita hesitated, then cleared her throat—as if asking for direction.

The girl, cradling a leather-bound book, its cover inscribed with red and gold lettering, lifted her chin slightly, gesturing to her left.

Margarita felt a sudden, inexplicable terror.

She turned her head.

Behind her, standing at her side, was a man.

The shock of realizing someone had been there all along struck her chest like a hammer blow.

A sickening weight crushed her insides, nausea twisted through her stomach—she thought she might vomit right then and there.

And just as her body gave in to the sensation, just as she prepared to double over, the man placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Calm yourself."

And she did.