The millionaire was searching for his son and was already desperately posting his photos on poles when a poor girl approached him and said

The girl looked carefully at the photo and nodded calmly:
— Yes. He barely speaks. He draws all the time. And at night he cries… calling for his dad.

That word hit harder than any blow. A dam burst in Hernán’s chest: his son’s laughter, his drawings, his nighttime fears — all he had buried inside for a year. He closed his eyes so as not to fall onto the dusty street.

— Do you live far? — he asked, clinging to hope.

— No. Around the corner — the girl replied softly.

Every step toward her house was a step toward salvation… or total collapse. He was afraid. But he could no longer turn back.

The house was poor, unfamiliar. The woman at the door — tense, wary — denied everything and slammed the door. Yet Hernán knew: his son was there.

The truth came out later — events unfolded like an avalanche: police, confessions, arrests. A network trading children. A woman hiding behind care but living in lies.

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