The Girl Who Was Running Out of Time
Little Camila Alarcón, only seven, had three months to live.
Her father, Rodrigo — one of the richest men in the country — had flown her to every specialist in Europe. No one could help.
Every night, he sat by her bed, listening to her shallow breaths, cursing the world for its cruelty.
One evening, his maid, Claudia, spoke softly:
“Señor, there’s someone who might help. A doctor — not from a hospital. He once cured my brother when they said there was no hope.”
Rodrigo’s eyes hardened. “Don’t insult me with fairy tales.”
But when Camila’s fever rose again, and the machines began to fail, pride gave way to despair.
“Where is he?” Rodrigo asked, his voice trembling.
“In the mountains,” Claudia whispered. “Far from the city — where money doesn’t matter.”
They left before dawn, in silence.
At the end of a long dirt road stood a small house and an old man waiting outside.
“You came seeking miracles,” he said. “Then you came to the wrong place. Here, there is only truth.”
Claudia begged, “Please, help her.”
The man looked at Camila, pale and motionless, and sighed.
“Her illness is grave… but not impossible.”
Rodrigo pulled out a checkbook. “Whatever you want — name your price.”
The old man shook his head. “Money means nothing here. What matters is whether you’re ready to change.”