I found myself in a dark space, defenseless and vulnerable. Our new home was a simple construction of poorly arranged planks that barely protected us from the elements.

Water filtered in mercilessly every time it rained, and the wind whistled through the cracks as if mocking our misery.

From my limited perspective as a baby, I could observe the deplorable state of our possessions: a few worn-out rags that served as blankets and a couple of rusty tin bowls that constituted all our dinnerware.

The walls, damp and neglected, served as home to countless black insects that crawled endlessly. Mud dripped from the ceiling with an irregular rhythm, mixing with the creaking of the tiny legs of those unwanted invaders.

The stale air made it difficult for me to breathe, but I had learned to live with it. I had no other choice.

The sounds of those creatures that shared our space had become a macabre symphony that accompanied my days and nights.

When hunger became unbearable, I began to cry, knowing it was my only form of communication. As expected, I heard my mother's sweet voice:

—Oh, it seems our baby is hungry again.

I felt her warm arms wrapping around me gently, and I stopped crying immediately. Why continue wasting energy when I had already gotten what I wanted? Crying was exhausting, and with my hunger, it only made my condition worse.

—Hoho, I think you recognize mommy —I heard her say with that voice that radiated happiness despite our circumstances.

Of course I recognized her. How could I not? Although I spent most of my time sleeping and my mobility was practically nonexistent, I had memorized every detail of her face.

A small smile formed on my lips upon hearing the word "mommy," confirming her suspicions.

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I watched how her eyes shone with love while she gently opened her blouse. The first time she breastfed me, I remember feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable —vestiges of my previous life— but now it was the most natural thing in the world. Without hesitation, I accepted her breast and began to feed eagerly.

The sensation of warm breast milk heating my tiny body was indescribable. Each swallow brought with it a wave of peace and well-being that flowed smoothly through my esophagus.

In those moments, held in her soft arms, any complaint or frustration vanished like fog before the sun. It was a comfort and security that I had rarely experienced in my previous life.

My eyes closed, not from tiredness this time, but from pure satisfaction.

As days turned into weeks, I noticed gradual changes in my senses. My mother's voice became clearer, as if someone were slowly adjusting the dial of a radio.

Objects in my field of vision began to define themselves better, although they were still far from being completely sharp.

During the day, I behaved as expected for a baby: I cried when I was hungry, slept at regular intervals, and enjoyed maternal affection.

My mother, whose name I had not yet learned, earned her living as a basket weaver. I watched her work with her rough but skilled hands, interweaving fibers with a precision that only experience can give. In her spare time, she became a gatherer, an occupation that barely allowed us to subsist.

I suspected my mother was an angel because I had never known someone so kind and warm.

While they carried me on their back with a sort of baby cradle strap, I accompanied her to what she called the district.

To feed us, she secured me to her back while collecting mushrooms and algae that grew in the perpetual darkness and humidity of the underground tunnels.

This place, I gradually understood, was an underground shelter, far from the sunlight and blue sky that I only knew in my memories.

From my privileged position on her back, I observed the pure earth floor, devoid of any vegetation and full of potholes and rocks. Instead, we were surrounded by artificial and colorless constructions that were lost in the darkness.

When I looked up, instinctively searching for the sky, I only found absolute blackness, deeper than any night I had known. It was a darkness that devoured light, so dense that I could only compare it to the void itself.

The streets we traveled through were crowded with people who, like us, wore light and ragged clothes despite the persistent cold.

The dwellings, small and precarious, were piled up along the sides of the narrow paths that meandered through the tunnels of the underground district.

They were makeshift constructions with cheap stones and various materials, silent witnesses to the daily struggle for survival.

—Oh, it seems Adelaide had a great harvest today.