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She opened the box. Inside lay a child’s white shoe, scuffed at the toe, and a curl of black hair tied with a red ribbon.

“The map is inside,” Mateo said. “You have to go down.” almas perdidas

“He doesn’t remember,” Mateo said. “That’s what lost means. They wander until the memory of love burns out. Then they become the fog, the wind, the rain that falls sideways.” She opened the box

“You’ll become lost, too.”

Mateo stood alone in the rain. He was no longer a ghost. He was just a man, wet and tired, with nothing left to lose. scuffed at the toe