The morning of August 15, 1993, dawned hot and bright in Seville, Spain. Nineteen-year-old Elena Romero woke up early in her small bedroom in the family home in the Triana neighborhood. She had a job interview that afternoon at a clothing store downtown and was nervous, but excited.
“Dad, can you lend me some money for the bus?” Elena called as she came downstairs. Her father, Antonio Romero, was in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “Sure, honey,” Antonio replied, taking some coins from his pocket. “What time is your interview?” “At 3:00. The store is on Sierpes Street.” Antonio looked at his daughter with a strange, almost nostalgic expression.
“You’re growing up so fast. It seems like only yesterday you were a little girl.” Elena smiled and kissed his cheek. “I’ll always be your little girl, Dad.” Her mother, Carmen, had died of cancer two years earlier, leaving Elena and Antonio alone in the three-story house the family had occupied for generations. The relationship between father and daughter had grown closer since the loss, or so Elena thought.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” Elena promised, grabbing her purse. “I’m going to stop by Lucia’s first so she can help me choose what to wear.” “Elena, wait.” Antonio stood up quickly. “Before you go, could you help me with something in the basement? The lightbulb burned out, and I can’t see to change it. It’ll only take five minutes.” Elena glanced at her watch.
She had plenty of time. “Okay, but only five minutes. I don’t want to be late for Lucia’s.” She followed her father down the stairs to the basement. It was a large, old space they rarely used, filled with old boxes, discarded furniture, and her grandfather’s old carpentry workshop. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling near the stairs, providing dim light.
“The lightbulb that needs changing is at the back, Antonio,” she said, pointing toward the darkest part of the basement. “I need you to hold the ladder while I climb up.” Elena walked toward where her father was pointing, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. That’s when she heard a sound behind her, a quick movement. She turned just in time to see Antonio closing and locking a heavy metal door she hadn’t even known existed.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Elena ran to the door, pushing against it. It wouldn’t budge. “Dad, this isn’t funny. Open up.” Antonio’s voice came muffled from the other side. “I’m sorry, Elena, but I can’t let you go. I can’t lose you like I lost your mother. You’ll be safe here.” “What? Are you crazy? Open up now. I’ll bring you food and water.”
“You’ll have everything you need. You just have to stay here where nothing bad can happen to you.” Elena pounded on the door until her hands ached. She screamed until she was hoarse, but the house was old, with thick walls, and the basement was on the lowest level. No one heard her. That afternoon, when Elena didn’t show up for her interview, the shop owner called home.
Antonio answered, his voice filled with worry, saying that Elena had left early that morning and hadn’t returned. When Lucía called, asking why Elena hadn’t come home, Antonio repeated the same story. “She left this morning. I thought she was with you.” At 9 p.m., Antonio went to the police station to report his daughter missing.
He wept as he filled out the report. The image of a devastated father. The officers comforted him, promising they would do everything possible to find Elena. The search began immediately. Friends and neighbors joined in, combing the streets of Seville, distributing flyers with Elena’s picture. Her bright smile seemed to gaze from every lamppost and shop window. Elena Romero, 19 years old.
Last seen wearing a denim skirt and white t-shirt, long brown hair, brown eyes, but there were no clues. Elena had simply vanished. In the basement, Elena explored her prison by the dim light of the only bulb that worked. The space was larger than she had initially thought.
Behind boxes and old furniture, she discovered that her father had built a sort of secret room with new walls that separated one section of the basement from the rest. There was a simple bed, a small desk, a bookshelf with old books, a cube in the corner that she horrifyingly understood would be her bathroom, and, most terrifying of all, a chain bolted to the wall with a shackle.
No, no, no, Elena whispered, panic threatening to overwhelm her. This can’t be happening. She heard footsteps upstairs, then the sound of the basement door opening. Antonio came down the stairs carrying a tray with food and water. Please, Dad, Elena begged as he opened the metal door just enough to let the tray through. Let me out. I promise I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.
You can’t leave, Antonio said, his voice strangely calm. The world is dangerous, Elena. Your mother died out there. I won’t let
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