The phone started ringing. It was his son.

"Dad, don't move from the house. Hide. Don't open the door for anyone."

The call was immediately cut off. His son's tone left him paralyzed, as if the walls of his home had become alien.

He looked out the window. The street was deserted, and he saw only a black sedan parked right in front of his house. It was unfamiliar. A slight movement inside the vehicle told him that someone was watching him.

He closed the blinds. His heart was pounding, his face turned red, and the arteries in his head seemed to dance in chaos.

For some reason, his mind went to a package his son had given him a week ago, wrapped in brown paper, with no further details. "Keep it. Don't open it until I tell you." He never asked why.

He ran to the last room in the house. There, he clumsily opened the wrapper. Inside was a folder with documents, blurry photographs of unfamiliar faces... and a note: "If you're reading this, it's already too late."

A loud thud upstairs. Then another.

Someone had entered.

He locked the door. The footsteps were approaching slowly. He was breathing heavily, clutching an old screwdriver in his hands.

When the doorknob turned, he thought of his son. Of his warning.

The door opened with a slow creak, and a hooded figure looked straight into his eyes.

"Dad," the figure whispered, "there's something more I didn't tell you..."

And the phone rang again.

El teléfono empezó a sonar. Era su hijo.

—Papá, no te muevas de la casa. Escóndete. No abras a nadie.

De inmediato, la llamada se cortó. El tono de su hijo lo dejó paralizado, como si las paredes de su hogar se hubieran vuelto ajenas.

Miró por la ventana: la calle estaba desierta, solo veía un sedán negro estacionado justo frente a su casa. No era conocido. Un movimiento mínimo dentro del vehículo le anunció que alguien lo observaba.

Cerró persianas. El corazón le latía con fuerza, su cara se puso roja y las arterias de su cabeza parecían danzar en un desorden

Sin saber la razón a su mente llegó un paquete que su hijo le había entregado una semana atrás, envuelto en papel marrón, sin más detalles. “Guárdalo. No lo abras hasta que yo te lo diga.” Nunca preguntó por qué.

Corrió a la última habitación de la casa. Allí, abrió el envoltorio con torpeza. Dentro, una carpeta con documentos, fotografías borrosas de rostros desconocidos… y una nota: “Si estás leyendo esto, ya es tarde.”

Un golpe seco arriba. Luego otro.

Alguien había entrado.

Cerró la puerta con seguro. Las pisadas se acercaban lentamente. Él respiraba con dificultad, apretando en su mano un viejo destornillador.

Cuando la perilla giró, pensó en su hijo. En su advertencia.

La puerta se abrió con un chirrido lento… y una figura encapuchada lo miró directo a los ojos.

—Papá —susurró la figura—, hay algo más que no te dije…

Y el teléfono volvió a sonar.