After twenty years in prison, no one was waiting for Elvira at the exit. No flowers, no hugs, not even a familiar glance amidst the city’s hurried crowds. The fresh air felt alien, almost violent, as if the world had continued turning without her, erasing any trace of her existence.
Elvira wandered aimlessly, carrying only a small cloth bag. She had learned to expect nothing, to survive with the bare minimum. But that freedom, so longed for over the years, now felt like an immense emptiness.
Night fell quickly. Without enough money or anywhere to go, she ended up leaving the city, guided by an ancient instinct, as if something were calling to her from afar. The road grew narrower and narrower, surrounded by withered trees and forgotten hills.
After hours of walking, he reached a strange terrain. The earth appeared disturbed, as if someone had tried to hide something beneath it. In the middle of this landscape, a barely visible structure stood out: the roof of a buried house.
Elvira stopped.
“It can’t be…” he murmured.
Curiosity overcame fear. He approached slowly and began to remove the earth with his hands. Little by little, he uncovered an old wooden door, covered in roots.
He pushed.
The door gave way with a deep creak, as if waking from a long sleep.
Inside, the air was cold, but not deserted. There was furniture covered in dust, but untouched. A table, a chair, a bed… and something else. A feeling.
As if someone had been waiting.
