The property was beyond impressive: three stories of neoclassical architecture surrounded by gardens so vast and meticulously maintained they resembled a botanical garden, with a swimming pool so large it could have passed for an artificial lagoon. But what struck Elara most was the silence; a heavy, almost unnatural silence. A house of that size, with those resources, should be teeming with life, movement, children’s laughter. Instead, there was only a dense silence, an atmosphere heavy with an ancient sadness.

—She must be the new caregiver.

A firm, authoritative voice echoed in the marble hall. It was Anso Barros, the family’s butler for almost twenty years, a man of about 55 with impeccable military bearing and a stern gaze that scanned her from head to toe.

“I’m Anso. I hope you’ve read and memorized all the instructions we sent you.
” “Yes, sir, I’ve read them several times,” Elara replied, recalling the detailed document she had received. The instructions were more suited to an isolation unit than a house.

The boy, Bruno, was supposedly gravely ill, and any physical exertion was strictly forbidden. Medications had to be administered with the precision of seconds, not minutes. He could not receive visitors, nor could he leave the mansion under any circumstances. And there was a strange rule: limit verbal interactions to the bare minimum necessary for his care.

“Young Bruno is in his room on the third floor, west wing,” Anso said, without the slightest trace of warmth. “Follow the rules to the letter. Any deviation will be reported to Mr. Alcoser and your contract will be terminated. We value discretion and obedience here. We will have a professional working relationship if you understand that.”

Elara nodded, feeling a knot in her stomach. She climbed the wide, carpeted staircase to the third floor, her heart pounding in her chest. This was her first big job since graduating. She had majored in pediatric nursing and intensive care for a deeply personal reason: she had lost a younger brother when she was still a teenager to an illness that doctors took too long to diagnose.

That day she swore that she would never again let a child suffer in front of her without doing absolutely everything possible.

Bruno’s bedroom door was made of solid wood, but decorated with stickers of superheroes and space rockets, though they looked faded, as if they’d been there for a long time without anyone bothering to replace them. He knocked softly.

—Bruno, it’s me, I’ve come to take care of you.

Silence.

She opened the door slowly and found a scene that broke her heart. In the middle of a huge room, worthy of a luxury hotel, there was a king-size  bed surrounded by medical equipment that looked more like a hospital cubicle than a child’s bedroom.

And in the center of that bed, almost lost among a mountain of  pillows, lay a child. He was small and painfully thin for a four-year-old. Bruno had messy brown hair, enormous green eyes, and a sickly pallor that contrasted sharply with the Egyptian cotton sheets. The air in the room smelled of a mixture of antiseptic and confinement.

—Hi, Bruno. I’m Elara.

The boy looked at her with a distrust that surprised her. It wasn’t the usual shyness of a child; it was an adult’s resignation.

—Are you leaving too?

The question, so simple and direct, was so full of sadness that Elara had to swallow hard to hold back her tears.

“Why would I leave?”
“All the aunts are leaving. Dad says it’s because I’m very sick.”

Elara approached slowly, like someone approaching a frightened animal, and sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a certain distance.

—Well, I’m quite stubborn. I’m not going anywhere that easily. And besides, I want to know what illness you have.

Bruno, without moving from his nest of pillows, pointed to a small stainless steel side table.

—Many illnesses. I take medicine all day long.

Elara got up and went to the table. She froze. It was like a whole pharmacy. She counted at least 20 different bottles: broad-spectrum antibiotics, powerful anti-inflammatories, very high doses of vitamins, all kinds of supplements, cough syrups, decongestant drops, patches…

“How long have you been sick?” he asked, taking one of the bottles.

Bruno tried to count on his fingers, but he gave up.

—Always. Mom died when I was born. Dad says it was because I got sick in her tummy.

Once again, Elara thought, a child carrying guilt that does not belong to him.

“It’s not your fault your mom went to heaven,” Elara said with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the coldness of the room. “Sometimes adults are too sad to explain things properly.
” “Do you know my dad?
” “Not yet. But I really want to meet him.”

Bruno shrank back into the pillows. Elara noticed them. There were at least eight or nine, enormous, all impeccably white.

“Why so many pillows?” she asked with professional curiosity.
“Dr. Ramiro says I need them, that I have to be lying down all the time. The pillows help me breathe.”

Elara frowned. A four-year-old shouldn’t be lying down all the time unless he was in critical condition, and although pale, Bruno’s breathing at rest seemed normal.

“Does it hurt when you breathe?”
“Sometimes, especially at night. And I’m tired. And as for walking… I can’t walk much, I get tired.”

Elara observed him with a clinical eye. The child was clearly weakened, but something didn’t add up. She had experience in the pediatric ICU at the regional hospital. She had seen cystic fibrosis, severe congenital heart defects, and leukemias. Bruno didn’t present the clear clinical signs of any specific pathology that she could instantly identify.

Bruno’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Power? Doesn’t it hurt me?”
“Of course not, Bruno. Reading stories cures boredom, which is a terrible disease.”

When he started reading, he noticed something strange: the child seemed fascinated by his voice, as if he wasn’t even used to simple human interaction.

Half an hour later, Julián Alcoser arrived home. He was a tall man, with perfectly combed dark hair, about 38 years old, dressed in a three-piece suit that cost more than Elara’s car, but his face bore an expression of exhaustion and sadness that neither money nor power could disguise.

Julián dedicated 18 hours a day to Alcoser Holdings to avoid thinking about his son’s supposed illness and the paralyzing guilt of not being able to cure him; of having lost his wife in childbirth and now feeling that he was also losing his son.

“How was your first day?” he asked Anso, loosening his tie.
“The new caregiver seems competent, sir. She’s following all the protocols. She’s in the room right now.”

Julian climbed the stairs, not two at a time, but with a weariness that reflected his state of mind.

She found Elara finishing the story of the dragon. Bruno was more lively than she had seen him in months.

-Dad.

Julián approached, though he stopped about two meters from the bed, maintaining an almost reverential distance, as if he were afraid of infecting his son or touching his pain.

—Hey, champ. How was your day?
—Aunt Elara read me the story of the dragon who became friends with the prince and didn’t breathe fire.
—Great.

Julian looked at Elara. His gray eyes were unreadable.

“Thank you for taking care of him.
” “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Alcoser. Bruno is a very special child.
” “Special and very fragile,” Julián remarked, almost as a warning. “I hope you understand all his limitations.
” “I do understand them,” Elara replied, though she couldn’t help but notice their strange way of interacting: Julián seemed terrified of getting too close, as if showing affection might hurt Bruno.

—Dad, are you coming to have dinner with me today? —Bruno asked.

Julian’s face darkened.

—I can’t, champ. I have an important meeting with the Tokyo team.

Bruno’s smile faded.

“You always have a meeting.”
“It’s work, son. To pay for your medicine. All your medicine.”

Julian left the room hurriedly, almost fleeing, leaving Bruno sad and Elara deeply confused.

That night, while preparing Bruno’s 9:00 PM dose, Elara decided to review each prescription one by one. As a nurse, she knew what each medication was for.

“How strange…” she murmured, lining up the jars on the marble countertop of Bruno’s private bathroom.

There were medications for completely contradictory conditions: a beta-blocker used for heart problems or high blood pressure, a powerful bronchodilator for severe asthma, an immunosuppressant—generally for autoimmune diseases—and, right next to it, a cocktail of vitamins to “boost” the immune system. It was as if Bruno had five serious and opposing illnesses at the same time.

“Bruno,” she asked the sleepy boy in a low voice, “does your chest hurt?”
“Sometimes… and my tummy too.”
“And do you have trouble breathing when you run?”
“I can’t run.”

Elara was lost in thought. The symptoms Bruno described were vague and, oddly enough, they matched the side effects of several of the medications he was taking.

During the first week, Elara established a strict routine with Bruno. She read him stories, they played board games in bed, and she taught him to draw dinosaurs. The boy lit up with this attention, but always within the confines of the bed and the room.

One day, Bruno asked her a question that threw her off.

—Aunt Elara, can I ask you something?
—Of course, dear.
—Why aren’t you wearing a mask like the other aunts?

Elara frowned.

—What masks?
—The other caregivers always wore masks so they wouldn’t catch my illness.

—Bruno, your illness isn’t contagious. It isn’t, darling. You can talk, play, and receive hugs without any problem.

Bruno’s eyes filled with tears.

—So… why does nobody want to be near me?

That innocent question broke Elara’s heart.

“I do want to be near you. And I’m not going to leave when I find out how sick you are,” she said gently.
“You’re going to leave… they all leave when they see how sick I am.
” “I’m not going to leave, Bruno. I promise.”

The child snuggled into Elara’s lap for the first time, seeking an affection he had been deprived of, like a plant that has never received sunlight.