Episode 1

Maria

When I open my eyes, I stare at the white ceiling. The tick-tock of the old clock on the bedside table seems louder today. I take a deep breath. Through the crack in the window, golden rays of sunlight cut through the room, dancing dust in the air.

For a second, everything seems calm. But only for a second.

"Maria!" My mother's voice echoes from downstairs like thunder. "Get up! You're going to the market with Nena, girl!"

I sigh. Without further ado, I swing my legs off the bed and walk to the bathroom. The cold tile welcomes me, and when I look at myself in the mirror above the sink, there it is. That feeling.

As if death were near, swirling around me like a silent ballerina, waiting for the cue to take me in her arms. Perhaps, when she comes, I'll just say: "Why did you take so long?"

It sounds morbid, I know. Seventeen years old and thoughts like this. But what is more morbid: wanting to die or living a life where you are a ghost of yourself?

I slowly take off my nightgown, turn on the shower... and, of course, the water gets hot for two seconds before freezing.

"Ahhh! Great. Genius, God. Genius." I grumble, shrinking under the icy stream.

The shower ends like a punishment. I come out feeling more awake, but not less empty. I choose any black dress — among so many other black ones that occupy my wardrobe. They suit me. They are discreet. Invisible.

I start to get dressed, calmly, when I hear the yell again coming from downstairs:

"Maria! For the love of God! We have the workshop opening tonight! You know your father hates delays. You don't want to upset him, do you?"

I roll my eyes. Of course. We don't want to upset Daddy. I've been beaten enough to know exactly the tone of voice that precedes the punishment. Another beating? It would just be another mark. Just another reminder that living here comes at a price.

Living for what? This question never leaves me alone.

A soft knock on the door paralyzes me. I swallow hard. Fear is an old acquaintance, and he doesn't even need to knock — he comes in without asking.

But, this time, it's just Nena.

She opens the door slowly, with that look of a mother tired of the world.

"Oh, my dear... don't upset your mother with your father, child. You know... the consequences."

I just nod, my eyes burning, already threatening to overflow.

"I know, Nena. I just... I need to be perfect. Always perfect. Even if, to do that, I need to disappear from myself."

She sighs, approaches, holds my hands firmly and lovingly. As if, for a moment, my heart had somewhere to land.

"Come on, my girl. Let's get some air. It will do you good."

I nod once more and follow her.

This is me: Maria. The girl who walks, but doesn't live. Who exists, but isn't there. Who no one would notice if she disappeared — or died.

Hope? That's just a pretty name for the lie they tell us to keep going. But I know. I see. Death doesn't seem like a bad end to me.

Not for me.

Then I arrive with Nena to the living room. My mother is already there, ready, walking from one side to the other as always, as if she were about to organize the whole world alone. Never stops. Never breathes. Because, in this house, no one has time to sit down and talk for real. Here, everyone wears masks that shine in public and suffocate in silence.

They talk so much about God... but His love? I never felt that living here.

"I'm going, Mom." I say, without any effort to fake enthusiasm.

She turns to me with that sharp look that measures every detail of my posture, my clothes, my tone of voice. Perfection is the least.

"Keep an eye on her, Nena!" she says in a tone louder than necessary. "And you, Maria, don't even think about being funny. Don't talk to any men, understand? No strangers. I don't want to hear about scandals!"

I nod, tightening my lips, but the words escape before I can hold them back:

"Of course, Mom. I'll be invisible as always. Maybe I shouldn't even exist, should I?"

The silence after that weighs.

Nena, always quick to prevent the worst from happening, holds my hand firmly, almost as a silent request: not now, my girl, not now.

"She will be fine, madam. We won't be long in returning." says Nena, gently pulling me towards the door before anything else explodes.

As I cross the threshold, the sun hits my face hard, as if the world outside were trying to prove that it still exists — even if everything inside me is cloudy.

MonteSereno wakes up slowly. The colorful houses hide more secrets than smiles. The market is a few blocks away, and the way there passes through flowered squares, religious murals, and the same people who greet me without ever really looking at me.

As I walk, I feel the squeeze of Nena's hand, and it is the only anchor I have in this sea of silence that screams inside me.

The streets begin to fill with the sounds of the morning. Teen laughter. Hurried steps. Backpacks on their backs, colorful uniforms, eyes shining with those who still believe in freedom.

I observe everything around me as someone watching a movie that they will never be able to live. My eyes follow those young people. Friendships. Dreams. Silly conversations. Love maybe. And, suddenly, something inside me breaks with a dull crack. A pain so silent that almost no one would notice — but that devours me.

I will never know what that is.

I will never know what it's like to sit on a school bench and tell someone a secret. Laugh out loud without thinking about the consequences. To be... simply to be.

But who am I?

The truth? I don't even know anymore.

"I can't take it anymore, Nena..." I whisper, my voice trembling, unable to hide the tears that now fall, hot and desperate.

I feel my hand slipping from hers, slowly, as if my will to stay here were slipping away with it.

Nena looks at me with teary eyes, trying to hold on to the strength that still remains in me.

"You can take it. Yes, you can, daughter. You are strong. You always have been..."

I swallow hard. But no... I'm not.

"I'm not, Nena..." I say between sobs. "I'm tired. Tired of pretending. Of trying to be perfect. Of living only to please. Of not being able to make mistakes. Perfect, Nena... always perfect... I can't take it anymore. I can't take it..."

I take a step forward, blinded by tears, by despair — and then I hear.

BRAKES!

A car. A scream. The thud of my body on the ground. The throbbing pain in my leg. The shock that paralyzes me. The adrenaline takes over. My eyes blink rapidly trying to understand what happened.

I hear muffled voices, as if they were coming from underwater.

"Hey?! Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Hey, girl?! Are you listening to us?"

Two faces appear before me. One framed by messy brown hair, wearing a dark leather jacket, intense eyes. The other in a suit, sober, with gray eyes as cold as dawn.

They seem worried... but it's hard to hear. My breathing is uneven.

That's when my eyes cross the street — and I freeze.

There he is.

My father.

Immobile. Arms crossed. Small hat aligned. His gaze fixed on me like blades. A silent judgment that I know all too well.

The cold runs down my spine. I know what that look means. I know.

I turn again to the two young men in front of me. I get up in a start, even with the pain, trying to regain control.

Nena is already by my side, her presence like a shield. She comes forward:

"She's fine, young men. Don't worry, it was just a scare."

I try to breathe, but the air doesn't come in right. Nena pulls me carefully by the hand, and we follow. But before taking another step, I look to the other side of the street.

My father is still there. Statue. Fixed gaze. Marked sentence.

Then, I turn discreetly back. The two young men are still watching me. And in this second when our eyes meet, I shout internally:

"Help me."

The one in the jacket feels it. I know he feels it.

He looks at my father, as if he could smell the danger. Then, his eyes return to me — attentive, dark, almost wild.

My hair moves with the cold breeze. And at that moment, something inside me whispers:

They are not ordinary.

But there is no more time to think. The pain in my leg throbs. The heart races. And the certainty comes cruel:

What awaits me at home... is worse than any accident.

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