The first to laugh was Rodrigo — short, sharp, like a gunshot. He raised his glass:
— I’m in. I want to see this miracle.

The others joined in. Bets were placed lazily, mockingly, as if it weren’t a child’s fate at stake but a horse race. To them, millions were just numbers. To the boy — an abyss.

Matteo snapped his fingers.
— Begin.

The boy didn’t move. He stood on the cold marble, looking not at the safe — but at the lock. His breathing became steady. Too steady for fear. He raised his hand and touched the metal as if greeting it.

— You have one attempt, — Matteo reminded him.

Click. Barely audible. Then a second.

The laughter died away. Someone leaned forward. In the room, the mechanism could be heard working — dry, precise, as if the safe were coming alive beneath his fingers.

The mother gripped the mop until her knuckles turned white. She wasn’t praying. She was afraid to breathe.

The third click sounded far too loud.

And then came the sound none of them had expected to hear that day.

The safe opened.