NO ONE GAVE HIM A PENNY ALL DAY… BUT WHEN THE MAN IN THE BLACK TRUCK ROLLED DOWN HIS WINDOW AND LOOKED AT HIS LITTLE DOG, ANDERSON KNEW SOMETHING VERY STRANGE WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN.
“Luna…” the man said from the truck, his voice breaking.
Anderson opened his eyes suddenly.
Mayte raised her head, alert, but did not bark.
Traffic roared around them.
Horns began to blare because the truck was still stopped in the middle of the avenue.
But in that instant, everything seemed to freeze.
The man clutched an old photograph between his fingers.
The image showed a young woman smiling in front of a humble house.
In her arms, she held a honey-colored puppy.
The same white patch on its chest.
The same floppy ear.
The same dark gaze.
Anderson felt a chill run down his spine.
“That… can’t be possible,” the man muttered as he stepped out of the vehicle.
Mayte took a step back and pressed herself against Anderson’s leg.
He stood up, tired but tense.
“Her name is Mayte,” he said firmly. “And she’s mine.”
The man looked at him for the first time.
Not with contempt.
Not with pity.
But with confusion.
He was about fifty, well dressed, with a face hardened by time and red eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“No,” he said softly. “That puppy was named Luna. My daughter lost her nine years ago.”
Anderson frowned.
“Then it’s not the same dog.”
“It would be… if it weren’t for something impossible.”
The driver approached nervously.
“Mr. Esteban, we need to go.”
But Esteban didn’t move.
His eyes remained fixed on Mayte, as if he were seeing a ghost.
“My daughter disappeared the same day that dog went missing,” he said quietly. “We never found either of them.”
The words hung in the air.
Anderson swallowed.
He didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t understand why this stranger was talking about a missing daughter while looking at Mayte as if she held all the answers.
“Sir, I found Mayte three years ago near the bus terminal,” he said slowly. “She was injured. She had a broken leg and a rope around her neck. I took care of her. She’s been with me ever since.”
Esteban looked down.
His jaw trembled.
“My daughter’s name was Lucía,” he said. “She was seventeen. She sang. She left home after an argument with me… and never came back.”
Anderson felt something tighten in his chest.
She sang.
The word hit him harder than he expected.
Because he had known someone like that.
Years ago.
In another city.
On a night he had never fully spoken about.
Esteban stepped forward.
“Where exactly did you find the dog?”
Anderson hesitated.
He didn’t like the way the man was looking at him now.
As if he had already started putting the pieces together.
“In Barranquilla,” he answered. “Near the old terminal.”
Esteban’s eyes widened.
“Lucía was last seen in Barranquilla.”
Silence fell heavily between them.
The driver spoke again, more quietly.
“Mr. Esteban…”
But Esteban ignored him.
“Are you a musician?” he asked suddenly.
Anderson felt a lump in his throat.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Always.”
“Were you in Barranquilla three years ago… singing in small bars?”
Anderson stopped breathing for a second.
He didn’t answer right away.
Because three years ago, he had sung in empty bars, on worn-out terraces, on street corners where faces blurred into smoke and noise.
Because in one of those places, he met a girl.
Thin.
Nervous.
With a small scar on her eyebrow.
And a honey-colored dog that never left her side.
Lucía.
She never told him her last name.
She never told him everything.
Only that she was running from someone and didn’t want to be found.
He remembered her voice.
The way she sang softly, as if every word cost her something.
The way she kept looking over her shoulder.
One night, after closing the bar, she asked him for a favor.
“If I ever disappear,” she said, “take my dog with you. Don’t leave her alone.”
He had laughed, thinking it was just fear talking.
The following week, Lucía didn’t return.
In their small room, there was only an old blanket, a notebook with song lyrics… and the little dog tied to the bed, crying.
Anderson tightened his grip.
“I… met a young woman,” he finally said.
Esteban turned pale.
“What was her name?”
“Lucía.”
The man stepped back as if struck.
“My God…”
The driver held his arm.
“Sir, please.”
But Esteban pulled away.
“Where is she?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Where is my daughter?”
Anderson looked down.
“I don’t know.”
Esteban shook his head.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“If you were with her, you must know something!”
Mayte let out a soft, uneasy sound.
Anderson looked up.
There was pain in that man’s eyes.
Deep, old pain.
But also guilt.
“She didn’t want to go back,” Anderson said quietly.
The words hit hard.
Esteban stood still.
“What did she say?” he asked, almost whispering.
Anderson hesitated.
But Lucía was gone.
And this man had spent nine years searching.
“She said you tried to control everything in her life,” Anderson said. “Her friend
