As the sun began to stream in, warm and golden, Catalina felt she could finally breathe. She rose slowly, careful not to wake the children, and stepped outside the grotto to take in the view. The sight stole her breath. They were atop a hill, surrounded by mountains rolling like green and gray waves to the horizon. Below, the tiny village lay motionless, looking like a cluster of abandoned toy houses in the vast emptiness.
And right beside the grotto, half-hidden among twisted trees and thick undergrowth, stood an old stone-and-adobe structure. Its roof sagged, its walls stained with dark green moss. It seemed like an abandoned house—or perhaps a forgotten chapel. Catalina approached cautiously, pushing dry branches aside with her hands. The door was half-shut, hanging on a single rusty hinge that groaned when she nudged it open. Inside, rubble covered the floor: fallen beams, broken tiles, old birds’ nests, cobwebs thick as curtains, and a pungent smell of rotting wood mixed with a metallic bitterness that scratched her throat.
But there was something else. In the center of the floor, buried beneath dry earth and branches, a piece of wood jutted upward as if part of a trapdoor. Catalina knelt, clearing soil with her hands, pulling up thin roots and moving stones aside, and discovered that yes—it was a trapdoor. An old padlock, corroded by time and covered in rust, held it closed. She pulled hard, and it snapped open with a sharp click. With effort, she lifted the lid—and what lay beneath froze her in place.
Downstairs was a small, dark cellar, with stone steps descending into gloom. Against one wall were stacked wooden crates, some open, some closed, and dusty glass jars. Inside an open crate, old silver coins gleamed faintly in the light filtering from above. Catalina descended carefully, her hands gripping the damp walls, her heart hammering. She lifted a coin with trembling fingers.
It was heavy, cold, real. A blurry date was engraved on it: 1898. There were more—dozens, maybe hundreds—piled in sacks of rotted cloth that crumbled to her touch. She didn’t understand this place, or why she was here, or who it belonged to. But in that moment, holding the coin, she felt something shift. Perhaps, after all, they weren’t as lost as she had feared. She ran up the stairs, out of the house, and back to the grotto.
