ADVERTISEMENT
Perla vanished into the late afternoon haze, a small figure swallowed by the urban sprawl. When she didn’t return within twenty minutes, the initial annoyance of her parents shifted into a cold, prickling dread. By the time the moon rose over the Constitución de 1917 station, the neighborhood was alive with the flickering lights of handheld torches. Neighbors joined the frantic search, calling her name into the dark corners of alleyways and behind the rusted skeletons of abandoned cars. But the night offered no answers, only an oppressive heat and the distant, rhythmic clatter of the trains.
