“We’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound right now,” he announced, trying to sound routine. “I just… need to confirm something.”

The door opened, the nurse entered, and cold gel touched my skin. On the screen, gray shapes appeared—patterns that would make sense to someone trained to read them.

Not to me.

I only saw blurred forms.

But I saw Dr. Serrano’s face suddenly harden, as if an invisible line had been crossed.

His gaze fixed on a point in the image, unmoving, incredulous. His fingers stopped on the ultrasound controls.

“My God…” he whispered.

“What’s wrong?” I insisted, now feeling terror mixing with sudden nausea.

He took a deep breath and turned toward me with complete seriousness.

“Lucía, there’s something here that… looks like a previous surgical procedure. One that, according to your medical history, you never had. And the type of procedure I’m seeing… is never done without very clear consent.”

I dressed with trembling hands. The paper on the exam table crinkled under my steps like dry leaves. The nurse slipped out quietly, leaving us alone in the office.