By the time Luciana realized how much time had passed, the cold had already settled into her bones.

Rain soaked her hair, slid down her neck, and pooled in the cuffs of what had once been a pristine white dress. Now it clung to her like a shredded flag, heavy with mud and regret. Her ankle throbbed violently—every pulse screaming that something was terribly wrong. When she tried to move, pain shot up her leg and stole her breath.

The mountain road howled around her. Wind tore through the trees, bending them until their branches shrieked like warnings no one listened to.

to.

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“Please… help me…” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the rain. “I can’t get up…”

Headlights appeared again and again, cutting through the darkness like false promises. Each time, hope flared—only to vanish as the cars sped past, spraying dirty water across her legs as if she were nothing more than debris on the roadside. She screamed until her throat burned raw. She crawled, dragging herself closer to the lane. Still, no one stopped.

Eventually, she collapsed back onto the slick asphalt, trembling.

A cruel thought slipped into her mind: Maybe this is what you get.
For a life spent insulated from reality.
For never questioning the privilege that wrapped around her like armor.
For watching the world through tinted windows while others walked through storms.

She closed her eyes, ready to surrender.

Then she heard it.

Not the roar of a car—but the uneven, rising whine of a motorcycle. A single headlight emerged slowly around the curve, hesitating, as if unsure whether to keep going. Luciana didn’t even open her eyes. She expected disappointment again.

Instead, the engine cut off right in front of her.

“Oh—God…” a young man’s voice breathed, sharp with alarm. “What happened to you?”

Luciana forced her eyes open. A man barely in his twenties stood beside an old but well-cared-for motorcycle. His work clothes were stained with grease, rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his hands were rough—hands that knew effort. He looked at her not with fear or disgust, but with concern so genuine it felt unfamiliar.

“I fell,” she whispered. “My driver left me. I can’t walk.”

He dropped to his knees in the mud without hesitation.

“How long have you been here?”

“Three hours,” she admitted quietly. “No one stopped.”

His jaw tightened, as if the answer physically hurt him. He didn’t say anything. He simply shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was warm. It smelled of rain, oil, and something real—something grounding.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said.

“I don’t have any money,” she blurted out, confused, disoriented—forgetting, for a moment, who she was.

He studied her briefly. The expensive watch. The delicate fabric beneath the mud. He understood more than he said.

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Can you hold on if I help you onto the bike?”

She nodded.

He lifted her with ease, settling her carefully behind him. As the motorcycle moved cautiously along the wet road, every bump sent pain flashing through her body—but she stayed silent. This stranger was doing something no one ever had: helping without asking why or what he’d get in return.

When the lights of San Ignacio Hospital finally appeared through the rain, Luciana sobbed in relief.

The young man carried her inside, shouting for help, answering questions, explaining over and over that he didn’t know her—that he’d just found her alone on the road. When the doctor mentioned X-rays and costs, Luciana tried to speak, but the young man interrupted.

“How much?”

The amount drained the color from his face. He counted the worn bills in his wallet—then disappeared.

For thirty minutes, Luciana lay there convinced the world had proven her right again. Another man gone. Another promise broken.

Then he returned.

He had less money. No jacket. But he paid what he could, bought medicine, and placed the rest of his cash on the table. Beside it, a crumpled note.

Take care. There are still good people in the world.

“What’s your name?” Luciana asked urgently.

He smiled—a quiet, sad smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just don’t lose faith.”

And then he was gone.

A nurse leaned over later and whispered, “He waited four hours. He refused to leave until we treated you.”

Luciana clutched the note. In twenty-six years, no one had helped her without wanting something in return. And she didn’t even know his name.

The leather jacket lay beside her—the only thing he’d forgotten.

She wore it in the taxi home.

The penthouse doors opened to a different kind of cold.

Her mother, Bárbara Torres, sat perfectly composed, eyes sharp with judgment.

“How embarrassing,” she said flatly.

Luciana tried to explain. The driver’s abandonment. The accident. But when the driver arrived moments later with a rehearsed lie, her mother believed him instantly.

“No one helps for free,” Bárbara concluded. “If someone paid for you, they’ll collect eventually.”

Luciana hugged the jacket closer.

“I want to find him,” she said softly.

“No,” her mother snapped. “There are no good people—only people who haven’t asked yet.”

That night, Luciana read the note again and again.

There are still good people in the world.

Three days later, she called the only person she trusted—Renata Campos, now a private investigator.

“I need to find someone,” Luciana said. “A motorcyclist. Mechanic. He saved my life.”

Renata paused. “It won’t be easy… but it’s possible.”

Luciana didn’t wait.

She searched workshop after workshop, limping through neighborhoods she’d never walked before—until her mother stopped her with photographs and violence.

“That family already ruined us once,” Bárbara hissed.

Which family?

The answer came a week later.

Renata’s voice shook with excitement.

“I found him,” she said. “Navarro Auto Shop. Engativá. His name is Andrés.”

And Luciana finally understood—
saving her life was only the beginning.

Luciana arrived at the workshop with her heart pounding in her throat.

The place was small, noisy, and filled with the smell of burnt oil. A pair of legs peeked out from under an old car.

“Excuse me,” she said nervously.

The voice that answered sent shivers down her spine.

-One moment.

When he came tumbling out and saw her, at first he didn’t recognize her. Without mud, without tears, wearing clean clothes and with a stylish handbag slung over her shoulder, Luciana looked like a completely different person. But then he saw the orthopedic boot… and his eyes changed.

-It’s you?

Luciana nodded.

—I came to pay you back—he said, handing over an envelope with money, more than he had spent, much more—. For the hospital, the taxi… everything.

Andrés’ expression closed.