The young woman left the office, and the man—elegant, poised—gestured for Margarita to step inside.

He pulled out a chair for her, waiting until she sat down before circling around a gleaming wooden desk and welcoming her.

"I came because of the flyer," she blurted out clumsily, extending the leaflet for Mystic Theater.

"What do you need?"

Not even knowing why she was there, she answered honestly.

"I'm desperate."

The man leaned back in his chair, resting his chin in his hand as he studied her.

Margarita noticed his piercing black eyes, the neatly trimmed mustache, his perfectly groomed face. His forehead was wide—perhaps too wide—framed by straight hair so fine it almost seemed wavy, like a baby's.

And that gaze...

The sharp, intelligent eyes of an educated man who trusts no one, who suspects everything, who doubts.

The gaze of someone who carries the unbearable weight of loss.

She knew that look too well.

"You must be careful."

"What?"

"May I?" the master asked, extending his hands, palms up, inviting her to place hers in them.

She hesitated, then slowly offered her hands.

His grip closed around hers.

Ice.

His hands were freezing cold.

Outside, the rain began to patter against the window. Dark clouds coiled above the city.

He never broke eye contact, and she felt her heart begin to race.

Then, he released her hands.

They dropped onto the desk, as if he had thrown them aside—only he hadn't.

They had simply fallen, so heavy that her own strength had given out.

"There's nothing to be done, señora."

"What are you talking about?"

"What you seek... is no longer here."

"What do you mean, 'no longer here'?"

"I'm very sorry, señora. But we can't help you here."

The master stood up.

The young woman re-entered the room, quickly, ushering Margarita to leave.

"You should go."

"But... my son?"

The master looked at her, his expression weighed with sorrow. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then hesitated.

Instead, he walked around the desk and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"He is no longer here, señora. But he no longer suffers, either. There's nothing more to be done."

Stunned, Margarita felt her legs give out. She nearly collapsed, but the master and the young woman caught her just in time.

"Where is he?"

"Señora, there's no point. Let it go."

"I would sell my soul to the devil just to know where he is."

"Don't say that," he snapped. "Don't be a fool."

Margarita suddenly lost focus.

She thought of Isidro.

She thought of Luisito.

She thought of that morning—how rushed their goodbyes had been. Had she known... she would have done more. Smiled more. Touched them. Held them.

"Help me find him."

"I can't. Only women can find. I... I can only tell you it's no longer necessary. He is—"

"Please..."

"I could train you. Teach you. But it's dangerous. It's a curse. You will have no life beyond—"

"I breathe, master. But I have no life."

"You don't understand. This is a door that, once opened, can never be closed."

In the mirror on the far wall, something moved.

Like smoke.

Like black liquid, oozing, shifting.

"The ritual demands your life."

"I would give my life to find him."

"No, that's not what I mean. You won't die. In fact, you may live many, many years..." He hesitated. "But your life will no longer be yours."

"And I will find my son?"

"Yes, of course.

But it won't matter.

He is already dead."

A bitter bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back down.

"I will give everything to find him."

"Tomorrow. Be at the cemetery at nine o'clock sharp. The ritual is dangerous. Demanding. Women have died in the middle of it..."

"Until tomorrow, master."

As Margarita stepped out of Mystic Theater, the old woman at the entrance reached for her, muttering something.

"What?" Margarita asked, turning back toward the doorway.

At that exact moment, a car sped past—

barely missing her.

She could have been killed.

The old woman closed the door.

Margarita, shattered, made her way home.