Suddenly, the fabric she was ironing began to take shape, transforming into a beautiful, antique-style dress. La Planchada's eyes locked onto mine, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. She was trying to communicate something, but I couldn't quite decipher the message.
When La Planchada finally stopped ironing, the room fell silent. The dress lay perfectly pressed on the board, its fabric shimmering in the dim light. She turned to me, her eyes filled with a deep sadness, and vanished into thin air.
As I walked through the abandoned hospital, I stumbled upon a door with a faded sign that read "La Planchada". I had heard whispers about this enigmatic figure, a ghostly woman with a penchant for ironing. My curiosity got the better of me, and I pushed open the creaky door.
Without a word, she beckoned me to approach. I hesitated, but my curiosity propelled me forward. As I drew closer, I noticed the ironing board before her was covered in a variety of fabrics: delicate lace, crisp cotton, and even a tattered wedding veil.
La Planchada gestured to the iron, and I saw that it was an antique, its surface etched with strange symbols. She began to iron a crumpled piece of fabric, her movements smooth and deliberate. The iron glided across the fabric, leaving behind a trail of smooth, crease-free perfection.