She had lost her daughter, Luna, three years ago. Not to death, but to disappearance. One morning the girl was thirteen, humming Violeta Parra in the kitchen; by nightfall she was gone, leaving behind a purple notebook with a single line: “Mamá, no me busques en los lugares donde crees que estoy. Búscame en lo que se oculta cuando todos duermen.” Alma had looked everywhere. In the folds of Luna’s mattress, in the code of her old phone, in the eyes of every girl on the missing-persons flyers. She even hired a brujo in Oaxaca who claimed he could trace souls through the static of abandoned radios. Nothing.