Fonseca took out the black key.
Introduced her.
The lock turned by itself.
The door opened.
Behind was a staircase descending into the darkness.
—Let’s go down?
Fonseca took a deep breath.
—We have already come too far to return.
They went down.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Twenty steps.
The air became increasingly colder.
Finally they reached an underground room.
And there they found something that neither of them could have imagined.
There were dozens of beds.
All busy.
Nuns.
Asleep.
Some looked to be twenty years old.
Others, fifty.
Others looked old.
But they all wore the same habit.
Camilo approached one.
—They are breathing.
Fonseca checked his pulse.
—Yeah.
—Are they sick?
—No.
Then he saw the walls.
They were covered in names.
Thousands of names.
And next to each name there was a date.
Fonseca recognized some.
They were names of women reported missing for decades.
Camilo began to tremble.
—What is this place?
A voice responded from the darkness.
—The place where we keep those who still remember.
They both turned around.
The Mother Superior was behind them.
A tall woman, with a serene face.
He was approximately sixty years old.
But his eyes seemed much older.
—Where is María Inés? —Fonseca asked.
The superior smiled.
—She was never dead.
—We found her in the morgue.
—No.
The smile disappeared.
—They found one of their skins.
Camilo backed away.
—What does that mean?
The woman looked at the beds.
—From time to time, María Inés must leave this place.
—Because?
—Because the human body has limits.
Fonseca felt a chill.
—How long have you been doing this?
The superior remained silent.
Then he answered:
—Since they built the convent.
—Who is María Inés?
The woman looked down.
—The first.
Fonseca looked at the walls.
—The first what?
The superior approached.
—The first one who opened the door.
Then the lights came on.
All the women in the beds opened their eyes at the same time.
Camilo shouted.
Fonseca was paralyzed.
There was not a single dream expression on those faces.
