That night, she placed a thimble on the first square: the Oca (Goose). The rules of the classic Juego de la Oca were simple—roll, advance, say "De oca a oca y tiro porque me toca"—but this board was silent. She rolled a five.
In a forgotten attic in Granada, under a century of dust, Lucía found the board. It wasn't in a box. It was simply there, painted directly onto a cracked sheet of leather. No title, no instructions, no manufacturer's stamp. Just a spiral of 63 squares, each painted with a single, meticulous image: a skull, a bridge, a labyrinth, a well.
Lucía realized the truth: the sin título wasn't a lack of name—it was a lack of mercy. The classic game promises a journey to the "Garden of the Goose" (square 63). This board had no garden. Square 63 was a skull wearing a jester's cap.
Fascinated, she rolled again. A three. Square 8: El Pozo (The Well). On a normal board, you wait until another player rescues you. Here, a whirlpool of ink opened in the square. She blinked, and suddenly she was late for work—three hours had vanished. Her coffee mug was empty, and she had no memory of drinking it.
When her grandfather found her the next morning, Lucía was sitting at the kitchen table, rolling two dice onto a blank piece of paper. She looked up with ancient, placid eyes.
She didn't listen.
