Leonardo received the call from his girlfriend, her voice radiating nervousness and dread. He was sitting in front of a massive plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and a vibrant goat cheese salad. Carmen’s tone froze his appetite instantly.

“Calm down, slow your roll… you’re trampling my eardrums,” Leonardo said. “Breathe, Carmen. Breathe and start over. What’s happening?”

Carmen inhaled. Exhaled. And began.

She had gone with some friends to visit a neighbor who hadn’t been out for a walk in a week. The woman lived alone. No family. They knocked on the door. No one answered. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the smell.

A stench identical to the dance of putrefaction.

Leonardo, trying to remain practical, asked:
“Uh-huh, and does this warrant interrupting my lunch?”

Carmen held back. She knew his mealtime was sacred. To Leonardo, eating was like sex: a ritual that should never be interrupted, one to be enjoyed with absolute devotion.

“The smell was… monstrous,” she continued.

Leonardo paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Call the police. The fire department. And get out of there.”

Carmen called the police.
But she didn't leave.

Together with her friends, they forced the door and entered the apartment.

The place seemed frozen in time—a scene of unfathomable neglect. Dust lay in historical layers. And the smell… it grew stronger.

They searched the living room. The kitchen. The bathroom.

Nothing.

“Where’s the damn old lady?” one whispered.

In the master bedroom, they found something worse.

A damp wall, blanketed in mold. And a thick vine of ivy climbing like a serpent, swallowing the paint. In the middle of that wall, there was a cavity.

And inside that hole… the woman’s housecoat.

The same floral robe they saw her in every morning.

“Did the ivy… eat her?” Carmen asked, her voice breaking.

The others turned pale.
“That’s impossible.”

Then...

A breeze surged from nowhere. The apartment doors slammed shut. One after another. Even the bedroom door.

The silence was absolute.

Minutes later, the police arrived. Leonardo was right behind them. The front door was locked; they had to break it down.

No girls.
No old lady.

Leonardo reached for his phone to call Carmen.

The phone rang from inside the bedroom.

The officers entered. On the floor, next to the ivy-covered wall, lay the cell phone.

But no Carmen.

“Why would she leave her phone?” Leonardo muttered.

At that moment, barely perceptible, the ivy stirred.

And, without anyone noticing, it finished swallowing the last trace of a blouse—Carmen’s.

That’s my five minutes.