Breakfast was prepared as if guests were expected: fresh rolls, dark coffee, juice, butter aligned perfectly on the table. But Mateo ate alone, listening to the echo of his breathing bounce off the walls of a mansion that felt less like a home and more like a sealed tomb.
By 7:30, he was at his desk.
Computer humming.
Synthetic voice reading emails, contracts, profit margins.
Mateo controlled a global textile company without ever touching or seeing a single fabric. He typed faster than most sighted executives, made ruthless decisions, built wealth that had nowhere to go.
Lunch passed in silence.
Evening followed.
And then came the hour he hated most.
Dinner.
The table seated fourteen.
For seven years, only one chair had been occupied—his.
At the opposite end, far beyond reach, another chair remained untouched. Empty. Like a memory no one acknowledged.
Then, on one perfectly ordinary night, just as Mateo lifted his fork, he heard something impossible.
Small footsteps on marble.
He froze.
Someone very small was approaching.
A chair scraped.
A tiny grunt of effort.
Then a bright, fearless voice shattered the darkness:
“Are you eating by yourself?”