There was.
But the date of birth was impossible.
María Inés was born…
in 1912.
Fonseca closed the folder.
—Camilo.
—Yes?
—How old was the woman they brought in tonight?
—Twenty-nine.
Fonseca looked out the window.
—So we have a problem.
—Which?
—According to the documents, he was one hundred and fourteen years old.
Camilo stopped suddenly.
The truck skidded on the wet pavement.
—That?
—Keep driving.
—Doctor, that’s not normal!
—None of this is normal.
The Convent of Santa Clara appeared in the fog shortly after midnight.
It was a huge building, built on a hill.
The stone walls were covered in moisture.
There were no lights on.
Not a single one.
Camilo stopped the truck in front of the huge wooden doors.
—Are you sure anyone lives here?
Fonseca came down.
—Yeah.
He looked at the windows.
They were all closed.
Except one.
On the third floor.
A figure was standing behind the glass.
A woman.
Dressed in black.
Looking at them.
Camilo got out of the vehicle.
—See her?
Fonseca nodded.
The figure raised a hand.
And he turned off the light.
—Come on.
They entered.
The interior smelled of old incense and humidity.
On the main wall were dozens of portraits of nuns.
Fonseca illuminated some with his flashlight.
They all had the same symbol.
The cross with the circle in the center.
—It’s the same symbol on the key —Camilo said.
Fonseca approached.
Then he realized something.
The photographs had names and dates.
Camilo approached.
—Doctor…
The same woman appeared in all the photographs.
Always young.
Always with the same face.
Maria Ines.
Fonseca backed away.
—It can not be.
—It’s in all of them.
—No.
Fonseca observed a photograph from 1901.
The woman had exactly the same face.
She didn’t look like an ancestor.
It was her.
The same woman.
A noise came from the back of the convent.
A blow.
Then another.
Camilo raised the flashlight.
—Did you hear that?
Fonseca nodded.
They followed the sound down a narrow hallway.
They reached an iron gate.
The key symbol was engraved on it.
