A body.
Bound tightly with rope.
My bucket hit the ground as I rushed into the water.
The cold stabbed up my legs, but I fought forward anyway, shouting words the river swallowed instantly.
The current pushed against me, but at last I caught the man’s arm and dragged him toward the shore, my muscles screaming with the effort.
He was limp.
Blue-lipped.
Still tied.
I collapsed beside him, trembling, then pressed my trembling fingers to his neck.
A pulse.
Weak but alive.
“Not today,” I whispered. “Death has no claim on you today.”
I dragged him to my cottage—inch by inch—lit a fire, and cut away the soaked ropes.
When the light reached his face, I froze.
This was no ordinary man.
His clothes were fine fabric.
His watch gleamed with real gold.
And engraved on the ring he wore were three letters:
A.M.R.
I remembered the news reports—broadcast daily over our crackling radio.
Adrian M. Ruiz.
Spain’s missing billionaire.
Vanished without a trace.
And then, barely conscious, he mumbled words that made my blood run cold:
“They… tried to kill me.”
That evening, as fog rolled in from the valley, the quiet of my home shattered.
Engines.
Several.
They stopped right outside my door.
I blew out the lantern.