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.
Before I could answer, a voice called from inside:
“Mateo, don’t open the door like that!”
She stepped into the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel.
Time stopped.
The world went silent.
Three meters away from me stood Marina.
Alive.
Not a ghost. Not a memory.
Her hair was shorter. She looked fuller. She wore a simple house dress. But it was her—her eyes, her smile, the tiny scar on her chin.
Her face drained of color when she saw me.
“Roberto?” she whispered.
The bags fell from my hands. Cans rolled across the floor, breaking the silence.
“Marina?” I managed.
She backed away as if I were the nightmare.
“No… you shouldn’t be here.”
Then Doña Clara appeared, looking older—but healthy.
The pieces didn’t fit.
My “dead” wife.
Her mother, whom I’d supported for years.
And a child clinging to Marina’s leg, calling her Mama.
“I buried you,” I said, my voice turning cold. “I cried over your coffin. I’ve paid for your memory for five years.”
Marina broke down. Guilty, panicked tears.
A man stepped out of another room—tall, broad, unfamiliar.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“This is Roberto,” Marina said quietly. “My… ex-husband.”
That word hurt more than the funeral ever had.
Ex-husband.
The man looked at me, then at her.
“Is this the one with the money?” he asked.
She nodded.
Everything clicked.
They told me the truth.
There had been an accident that day—but not hers. She took advantage of the chaos. Paid someone to falsify records. The closed coffin had been intentional.
She hadn’t died.
She’d left.
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