Maybe because she was afraid of the answer.
So seven years passed.
Seven years walking through the same white hallway.
Seven years watching her blood fill the same bags.
Until one morning everything changed.
That day, the hospital was quieter than usual.
A new nurse was working at the reception.
“Please wait a moment,” she said while searching something on the computer.
María sat in the waiting room.
Next to her was an old metal filing cabinet.
One of the drawers was not fully closed.
A folder stuck out a few inches.
María had no intention of touching it.
But something inside her pushed her.
An intuition that had been asleep for years.
She slowly stood up.
Looked around.
No one was watching.
She opened the drawer.
Yellow folders.
Medical records.
Names.
She flipped through one.
Then another.
And then she saw it.
Alejandro González.
The air vanished from her lungs.
María froze.
She read it again.
Alejandro González.
Age: 19
Blood type: AB negative
Status: Chronic patient — periodic transfusions
María’s hands began to tremble.
“It must be another Alejandro,” she whispered.
But it wasn’t.
The admission date.
Seven years earlier.
The same day as the “accident.”
The same day she buried that coffin.
María’s heart was beating so hard she thought she might faint.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t make a scene.
She took out her phone.
Photographed every page.
Then carefully closed the folder.
She returned to her seat.
When the nurse called her, María walked to the bed as usual.
She sat down.
Extended her arm.
The needle entered her skin.
Blood began to flow.
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