Chapter 1 — The Third Morning

The scream caught in her throat.

Amira sat bolt upright in bed, breath ragged, the silk sheets tangled around her ankles like seaweed. The room pulsed — white walls, floor-to-ceiling glass, a bamboo canopy that swayed in the breeze as if the villa itself was breathing.

For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then the salt hit her tongue. The air — warm, damp, heavy with eucalyptus and something else: sweat. Fear.

Tulum.

The _Retiro Aluna_ wellness retreat. The influencer detox package. The no-phones, no-distractions, no-soul-left-untouched kind of place. She came with Jade. Jade booked it. Jade insisted.

But Jade wasn’t in the room.

Her bed was untouched.

Still made.

Still perfect.

The other side of paradise was always too quiet.

Amira swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor was polished stone, cool under her feet. Her throat was dry — sandpapered — and her heart hadn’t slowed since she woke.

That’s when she saw it.

Her phone.

On the floor.

Smashed.

The screen spiderwebbed into jagged glass, like it had been stomped.

She bent down, slow, hands trembling. The case was still on — the one Jade gave her in Mexico City. Burnt orange. With a small white eye etched on the back. Protection, Jade said. Against envy.

Now it was shattered.

And Jade… wasn’t here.

Amira stood, legs stiff, and walked to the glass doors. Pulled them open. The terrace greeted her with birdsong and humidity and the sound of the waves crashing, rhythmic and indifferent.

Jade’s sandals weren’t there.

Her towel — the lavender one she always insisted on — gone.

Something was wrong.

She turned, walked barefoot to the entry, and flung the door open.

A man was standing there.

Tall. In linen. Hands behind his back.

He didn’t flinch.

“Señorita Amira,” he said. “Is everything alright?”

“Where’s my friend?” Her voice cracked. “Where’s Jade?”

The man blinked. Slowly. As if the words didn’t make sense.

“I’m sorry?”

“My _friend_. We came together.”

He tilted his head. Calm. Too calm.

“Señorita… you arrived alone.”

Her heart dropped.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“I escorted you to your villa myself,” he said gently. “Three days ago. You were tired. You said you wanted silence.”

She stepped back. “No. That’s not true.”

He nodded to her phone. “There are no devices allowed here. That’s part of the detox. We can replace it, if it was accidentally damaged.”

Accidentally?

She looked down at her palm. A thin red line cut across the edge of her hand. Blood from the glass, probably.

Unless—

“I want to speak to the manager,” she said.

The man smiled, patient. “Of course. She’s waiting in the meditation garden.”

—

The walk through _Retiro Aluna_ felt like a dream. Or a warning. The kind you remember only when it’s too late.

The resort was tucked between jungle and sea, built to blend. Curved stone paths led through mangrove groves and cenote pools, past hand-painted ceramic tiles that glinted in the sun. Every detail was designed for serenity. Every scent — from the burning copal to the hibiscus tea in chilled glass jugs — whispered surrender.

But now Amira saw it differently.

Too quiet. Too perfect.

They passed a group in white kaftans, seated in a circle, eyes closed.

A woman chanted softly. Her voice wove through the air like smoke.

But none of the guests looked up. None of them blinked.

_Like they’d been taught not to._

At the edge of the garden, under a palapa draped in white linen, stood a woman in all beige. Mid-40s. No makeup. Hair pulled back in a braid so tight it looked painful.

“Ms. Amira,” she said warmly. “I’m Mariana. The founder.”

“I need to find my friend,” Amira said. “Jade. Jade Reyes. We checked in together.”

Mariana’s face didn’t change.

“There’s no guest by that name.”

Amira reached for her smashed phone instinctively — then froze.

She didn’t know Jade’s number by heart.

Just her Instagram handle. Her Telegram tag. Her nickname in WhatsApp — _Jade 🌙_.

Everything was digital.

Everything was gone.

“She’s an influencer,” Amira said. “You know her. She has like 600k. She tagged this place on the first night. Check the Wi-Fi logs, or your cameras—”

Mariana shook her head slowly.

“There are no cameras here,” she said. “That’s part of our philosophy. Complete digital erasure. No signal. No screens. No surveillance. Our guests come here to disappear.”

“Not like this,” Amira snapped. “She didn’t disappear. You made her—”

Mariana held up one hand.

A signal to someone behind Amira.

Two staff members stepped into view. Men. Quiet. Still. Like they'd been trained not to move unless instructed.

Amira’s voice dropped.

“I’m not leaving without her.”

Mariana studied her.

“Of course not,” she said kindly. “Why don’t we schedule a craniosacral reset? It will help your nervous system recalibrate.”

“You think I’m crazy,” Amira whispered.

“No,” Mariana said, smiling. “I think you’re in shock. But don’t worry. That’s what this retreat is _for_.”

—

They escorted her back to her villa — “for rest,” they said — but Amira didn’t sleep.

She _searched_.

Every drawer. Every cabinet.

Jade’s luggage wasn’t here.

Neither was her makeup case. Or her laptop. Or the rose-gold toothbrush she insisted on bringing everywhere, like a talisman.

Gone.

The only thing left was the bottle of perfume Jade had given her two days ago — amber and sandalwood.

“Real from Oaxaca,” Jade had said. “Only use it when you want to remember who you are.”

Now Amira sprayed it on her wrist. Just once. Just to keep from unraveling.

She sat on the floor.

The wall in front of her was hand-plastered limestone — warm, matte, ancient.

But as the light shifted, she saw something else.

A faint outline.

Of a door.

She crawled forward.

Pressed her fingers against it.

It wasn’t a real door. Not anymore.

Plastered over. But _uneven_.

She tapped.

_Hollow._

Her heart slammed.

She looked around.

No cameras. No staff.

She stood, grabbed a candle holder from the shelf, and slammed it into the wall.

Once.

Twice.

The plaster cracked.

Behind it: a handle.

And something carved in faint, looping script.

“Cada alma deja una huella.” _Every soul leaves a trace._

She pulled the handle.

And the wall gave way.

The passage was narrow. Cold.

Lit only by a thin rope of amber light that ran along the floor.

She stepped inside.

The door sealed shut behind her.

—

What she found would unmake everything.

The others.

The names.

The files.

Jade.

Her real name.

And the reason she was never supposed to come home.