“She was sad,” you whispered.
Aunt Maribel sighed and pulled you close.
“Yes. And you helped her. That does not mean you belong to her father now.”
Across town, Arturo Villalobos was already proving your aunt right.
In his glass penthouse overlooking Central Park, he watched the video for the forty-third time while Valentina slept on the couch beside him, curled under a white blanket.
She had said seven words since the plaza.
Daddy.
Water.
Please.
No.
Citlali.
That last one had made Arturo pause.
His daughter remembered your name.
That made you valuable.
And Arturo Villalobos did not know how to see value without wanting ownership.
His head of security, Mark Ellis, stood near the window.
“We tracked the girl through public footage until 48th Street,” Mark said. “After that, she disappears into the subway.”
Arturo did not look away from the screen.
“Find her.”
“We’re trying.”
“Try harder.”
Mark hesitated. “Sir, the video of you pushing her is gaining attention. Legal recommends a public apology.”
Arturo laughed coldly.
“Legal recommends whatever keeps them employed.”
“People are calling it assault.”
“People call everything assault now.”
Mark stayed silent.
Arturo finally turned. “That girl gave my daughter something no specialist could. I need the formula.”
“Maybe it was coincidence.”
Arturo’s eyes hardened.
“My daughter had not spoken in seven years. She drank that liquid and said Daddy in front of fifty witnesses. Do not insult me with coincidence.”
Mark nodded.
“What do you want done when we find her?”
Arturo looked at Valentina.
She was sleeping peacefully, one small hand tucked under her cheek.
For one brief second, his face softened like a real father’s.
Then greed returned.
“Bring her to me.”
The next morning, you and Aunt Maribel tried to leave the shelter before sunrise.
You wore a hoodie low over your braids. Your knees were bandaged. Your backpack carried two dresses, your grandmother’s notebook, and a pouch of dried herbs you had not used yet.
At the bus station, you felt eyes on you.
