Chapter 8
Chapter 8 – Patterns of Breath
The wall breathed.
That was the first thing Mariana noticed once the screaming stopped.
Not metaphorically.
Not emotionally.
It rose—barely—then fell.
A shallow expansion beneath cracked paint and splintered drywall, like a chest fighting for air.
Leo was still inside.
Alive.
Barely.
Patricia backed away as if the wall itself might grab her. Her heel slipped on the tile, and she caught herself on the counter, knocking over Mariana’s cold coffee. The cup shattered, liquid spreading like a dark stain across the floor.
“Stop,” Patricia whispered. “This isn’t—this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
Mariana didn’t hear her.
She was on her knees now, fingers clawing at the broken wall, nails tearing, skin ripping. She didn’t feel the pain. She felt only the rhythm.
In.
Out.
Pause.
Too long.
“Leo,” she sobbed. “Baby, I’m here. Mommy’s here.”
From within the wall came a sound that was half-breath, half-whimper.
Inés stood frozen, watching.
“He’s tired,” she said softly. “He’s been counting his breaths so he doesn’t disappear.”
Mariana turned to her. “Counting?”
Inés nodded. “He does it every night. Four in. Five out. If he messes up, it hurts.”
Patricia covered her mouth.
“That’s impossible,” she said hoarsely. “He shouldn’t still be—”
Mariana lunged at her.
“You timed it,” Mariana said, eyes wild. “Didn’t you?”
Patricia flinched. “What?”
“You sealed him in based on time,” Mariana continued. “Air. Space. You calculated how long he’d last.”
Patricia didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The truth was written in her silence.
Mariana screamed—a raw, animal sound—and slammed her shoulder into the wall. Plaster gave way. Wood cracked.
“Call an ambulance,” she shouted at Patricia. “Now!”
Patricia shook her head slowly, backing toward the door. “If you open that wall, you’ll kill him.”
Mariana froze.
“What did you say?”
“He’s adapted,” Patricia said desperately. “Low oxygen. Shallow breathing. If you rush air in, his lungs could collapse.”
Mariana’s heart pounded. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Patricia whispered. “I researched it.”
The room spun.
Inés stepped forward. “She’s lying,” she said. “She just doesn’t want him to see her face.”
The wall shuddered.
A cough—wet and weak—rattled from inside.
Mariana pressed her ear to the opening. “Leo, baby, can you hear me?”
A pause.
Then, faintly: “Yes.”
Mariana’s body shook with sobs.
“Mommy’s here,” she said again. “You’re not alone.”
“I know,” Leo whispered. “I’ve been listening to your breathing.”
Patricia sank to the floor.
“I didn’t mean for this,” she murmured. “I just wanted him to feel… what my son felt. Trapped. Forgotten.”
Mariana stood.
“You listened to him suffocate,” she said quietly. “Every day.”
Patricia looked up, eyes hollow. “At first, I did.”
Mariana took a step closer. “And then?”
“And then I started timing his breaths,” Patricia said, voice breaking. “I told myself if he kept breathing, he was choosing to live.”
Mariana turned away, bile rising in her throat.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Someone must have called. The neighbor. The operator. Fate.
Mariana grabbed a kitchen knife and began cutting away more drywall, careful now—slow, deliberate. Each slice revealed darkness. Sweat. The smell of damp concrete and fear.
“Stay with me,” she whispered to Leo. “Match my breathing.”
She inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.
“In,” she said.
“Out.”
From inside the wall, Leo followed.
Four in.
Five out.
The pattern continued.
Sirens grew louder.
Patricia began to cry—not sobbing, not loud. Just broken, rhythmic gasps, out of sync with everyone else in the room.
Inés covered her ears.
“She breathes wrong,” she said.
Mariana didn’t look at Patricia again.
The wall gave way with a final crack.
A small hand reached out—trembling, filthy, alive.
Mariana took it.
May you like
And for the first time in six months, Leo’s breathing matched hers.
Perfectly.
