She nodded, grateful and broken, and returned to her village.
From that day on, every single month, the money left my account. It wasn’t a fortune, but to me it was sacred—a quiet ritual that made me feel connected to my wife even after she was gone. Sending that money felt like proof that I was still a good husband. That I was honoring her memory.
My friends told me it was time to stop.
“Roberto, it’s been years,” my best friend Jorge would say over beers. “You can’t keep living like this. That woman isn’t your responsibility anymore.”
“It’s not about her,” I always replied. “It’s about Marina.”
I didn’t realize then that grief, when left untouched for too long, eventually invites truth to break it apart.
Everything shifted on an unremarkable Tuesday.
The bank contacted me—not with a statement, but with a problem. Doña Clara’s local branch had closed, and they needed updated information to continue processing transfers. I tried calling her landline. Disconnected. I tried the cell phone I’d bought her. Straight to voicemail.
A strange sensation settled into my chest—not panic, but something colder. A quiet warning.
I realized I hadn’t truly spoken to her in months. Just short thank-you messages.
I checked my calendar. I had unused vacation days. My car keys sat on the table.
“Why not?” I thought. “I’ll go see her. Fix the bank issue in person. Make sure she’s okay. Maybe even visit the places Marina grew up. Maybe that’ll finally help me let go.”
I had no idea I was driving toward a truth that would shatter everything I believed.
The road was long and empty. As the miles passed, memories replayed in my mind—Marina’s laugh, the way she tilted her head when listening to music, the faint vanilla scent in her hair. I cried quietly, the way I only ever did when I was alone.
I reached the village at dusk. It was charming in that forgotten-by-time way—cobblestone streets, colorful houses, and an unmistakable sense of decay beneath the beauty. I hadn’t been there since the funeral.
I drove to Calle Las Flores, number 42.
And stopped.
The house wasn’t what I remembered.
The faded walls were gone, replaced by fresh bright yellow paint. The garden was immaculate—roses, bougainvillea, trimmed hedges. A new wooden fence framed the property. And parked in the driveway was a sedan that looked almost new.
I double-checked the address.
It was correct.
“Maybe she managed well,” I told myself. “Maybe $300 a month goes far here.”
Still, unease followed me as I stepped out of the car with the gifts.
I rang the doorbell.
Laughter drifted from inside.
Children’s laughter.
And a woman’s voice.
A voice that made my blood turn to ice.
I froze. That laugh—light, musical, ending in a soft sigh—I would recognize it anywhere.
“This isn’t real,” I told myself. “You’re exhausted. Grief does this.”
The door opened.
A little boy stood there, no older than four, holding a plastic toy. He stared at me curiously.
“Who are you?” he asked.
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