At only seven years old, she stood near the entrance of the park, clutching a small bunch of wilted flowers she had gathered from the cemetery that morning. Her dress was too thin for the cold. The soles of her shoes had split so badly that water soaked through with every step.
Still, she stood there quietly, holding out the flowers whenever someone walked by.
“Just one coin, please,” she would say softly.
Most people didn’t even look at her.
Some brushed past as if she were part of the rain itself.
In Santa Esperanza, people were used to children like Isabella—small figures drifting through the streets, belonging nowhere.
She had once lived in a children’s home, but it had never truly felt like one. Too many children. Too little food. Too few adults who cared enough to notice when someone cried at night.
Eventually, Isabella had simply slipped away.
No one had come looking.
That afternoon, the sky seemed heavier than usual. Rain pooled across the empty park, turning the grass into muddy patches.
Isabella was about to leave when something unusual caught her eye.
Between two puddles, near a bench, sat a wicker basket.
It looked strangely clean against the wet ground.
