The Apartment on Alder Street
The drive east felt endless. Wealthy neighborhoods gave way to cracked sidewalks and aging apartment buildings. Camila guided me through narrow streets until we stopped in front of a sagging brick complex.
“Third floor,” she said quietly.
Inside, the building smelled of damp walls and worn plaster. The apartment was a single small room — a mattress in one corner, a hot plate on the floor. On the bed lay a thin woman struggling to sit upright.
“Elena,” I whispered.
She stared at me as though I were a ghost. “Adrian?”
Camila rushed to her side. “Mama, he’s the man in the picture.”
I knelt beside the mattress as the entire world narrowed to that small space.
“Why did you leave?” I asked.
Tears slid down Elena’s hollow cheeks. “Your mother,” she whispered. “She threatened me. Said I’d ruin your future. She told me you didn’t want a baby.”
My blood went cold.
“She lied,” I said. “I searched for you.”
Elena shook her head weakly. “I was pregnant when she came. I was terrified.”
I looked at Camila.
Twelve years old.
My daughter.
“We’re leaving,” I said.
