Once, as we were leaving the hospital, she took my hand and said to me in a soft voice:

They left with the same hurry they had arrived with.

They didn’t even ask how her final days had been.

After the funeral, I returned to the house alone.

I sat at the table where I had served Doña Carmen so many meals.

I opened the letter again.

And I cried until my head hurt.

With that money I paid my university debts.

I fixed the roof of the house.

Painted the walls.

Replaced the gas installation that had been dangerous.

I kept the old radio, the faded photographs, and the wooden bed, because throwing them away felt like erasing something sacred.

I continued studying.

More peacefully.

With less hunger.

With less fear.

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