When she left the building, I followed.
She took a bus. Not even a decent one. It rattled its way into a forgotten part of the city—where streetlights barely worked and pavement turned into mud.
I abandoned my car and followed on foot, ruining my Italian shoes without even noticing.
She walked for twenty minutes in the rain, clutching that bag to her chest like it was treasure.
Finally, she stopped.
Not at a house.
At a ruin.
A half-collapsed concrete shell, windows covered with soaked cardboard and plastic sheets.
“Does she live here?” I whispered, confusion creeping in.
She pushed the door open and disappeared inside.
I crept closer, pressing myself against the damp wall. Through a crack in the window, I looked inside—
And everything inside me shattered.
There was no furniture.
Just thin mattresses on the floor. Flickering candles.
And three children.
A teenage boy. A little girl. And a small boy—maybe five years old—coughing so violently it echoed off the bare walls.
Elena wasn’t counting stolen goods.
She was on her knees, scrubbing the floor with the disinfectant.
Desperate.
Furiously cleaning mold off the walls—trying to create a sterile space in the middle of decay.