Prelude

On March 17th, 2019, Córdoba awoke as gray as the promise that autumn was near. The rainwater had tinted the street with silver hues, and the scent of wet asphalt wafted in through the window, permeating everything. The drops did not cease, nor did they intensify; they maintained their tedious rhythm, as if they had already grown tired of falling.

Alba hadn't left her room all week. She was exhausted from thinking, remembering, and blaming herself. The house had long been immersed in darkness and silence, becoming unbearable. From the window of her room on the second floor, she watched the street eagerly, waiting with a certain desperation for the one who would pull her out of her boredom, when finally, the red Fiat 600 appeared in her driveway. The driver got out. Alba swallowed hard. It was time for the light to illuminate her life.

There was a time, almost lost in her memory, when she had been pure light. She was still a child, and as such, she felt everything so intensely, so immensely, and, at the same time, so possible. But that time had slipped through her fingers, and now it was just a poorly drawn stroke on the canvas of her reality.

Her visitor entered the house and went up to the second floor without asking for permission; he didn't need to. When he opened the door, Alba turned towards him and gave him a nervous smile. He didn't respond; he was disappointed and probably resentful.

He approached a small round table near the window of the room, sat on one of the chairs, then buried his nose in his backpack and pulled out a recorder and a notebook. Finally, he looked up and directed his gaze towards her. Alba approached and sat in the opposite chair.

He took the recorder and was about to turn it on when suddenly a thought stopped him. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Are you going to tell me the truth this time?" he insisted.

Alba nodded again.

The recorder turned on, and the questions began. "Could you tell me your name?"

"Alba Solano."

"Could you tell me today's date and where we are?"

"It's Sunday, March 17th, 2019, and we are at my father's house in Alta Córdoba, in the city of Córdoba Capital."

The journalist didn't look up; he needed to avoid her gaze. "Where were you born?"

A small, involuntary smile appeared on Alba's lips. No one else would have ever asked her that question; there was no reason to think she wasn't from Córdoba. "I was born in a place near the Aegean Sea. It doesn't matter where; the place doesn't exist anymore," she replied, sadness filling her eyes.

She barely moved. Both of her hands rested on her lap, one on top of the other, her tone as calm as her demeanor. In contrast, the journalist couldn't stop fidgeting with his hair. Despite his firm decision not to let her know, he wasn't achieving his goal—he was nervous. "How long have you been living in this city?"

"Long enough," Alba replied sharply, without going into details.

"All right..." he sighed. "Let's continue," he said to himself. "What can you tell me about what happened on November 17th, 2017?"

"The day of the earthquake?" Alba asked, looking at him confused.

"There is not a single record of such an event happening in the city of Córdoba on that date."

Alba snorted. He treated her with distance; maybe he could never forgive her. "I know," she answered.

"How is it that there are no records of that event?"

"That I don't know."

The journalist checked his notes. "292 people were registered deceased on the early morning of November 17th, apparently with no connection," he read, emphasizing the 'apparently'.

Alba rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, having nothing to say about it.

The journalist returned to his notes, shaking his head disapprovingly. "What can you tell me about the 550 who were registered deceased on the night of June 14th, 2018? All of them drowned."

"That was the night of the flood," Alba replied, as if it were obvious.

"How is it that there are no records on that either?"

"I don't know, either."

The journalist turned off the recorder and looked at her with a serious expression. "Are you going to keep lying to me?" he asked, changing his tone to an even more severe one.

Alba squirmed in her chair and lowered her gaze. She couldn't believe he was still insisting she had lied to him. After a few seconds, she raised her face again, revealing her determination. She had made a decision, and there was no turning back. "Turn it on," she ordered.

"Alba, this doesn't make any sen..."

"Turn. It. On," she interrupted. She approached the table and leaned on it, looking straight into his eyes so intensely that this time he didn't dare to avoid it. "The reason for everything you're asking me has its origin in two different but related stories. One that happened over 3000 years ago, and ours. But for you to understand them, you have to listen with an open mind, not interrupt me, and stop questioning my intentions.