The following day at the hospital, further tests confirmed the unimaginable: movement where none had existed. The doctor sought opinions from other specialists; each echoed the same sentence, colored by disbelief: “It shouldn’t be possible.” Gabriel listened, yet in his thoughts there was only a small face and a steady voice: “Your legs are healed.”
He grew determined to locate her. He instructed the driver and two security guards to comb the city: a Black girl, eight years old, barefoot, in dirty clothing. Three days passed with no sign. Gabriel’s temper worsened, as though his anxiety demanded a target: he shouted over trivial errors, smashed objects, and became even more cutting than before. On the fourth day, the call arrived: they had spotted her beneath a bus shelter, sharing bread with a stray dog.
“Bring her here,” he commanded. “Now.”
When she stepped into the grand hall, accompanied by guards who looked uncomfortable, Gabriel studied her as though she were a puzzle. She, meanwhile, glanced around the mansion with calm curiosity, as if its towering walls held no threat. “What’s your name?” he asked abruptly. “Manuela.” “Last name?” “I don’t hav
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