“Yesterday. They filed paperwork. It’s already been recorded.”
My heart pounded. I asked, “Who authorized it?”
Marco’s voice lowered. “Someone with Daniel’s signature.”
There was a silence that stretched, the rain outside tapping against the window like a metronome.
“I’m coming back,” I said, the words feeling both inevitable and absurd. “I need to see the documents.”
He agreed to meet at a small café downtown, the one with the cracked tiles and the red awning, where we used to have lunch after meetings. I left the hostel, the bag feeling lighter now, the photograph still in my pocket, its edges softened by my fingers.
You will not believe how this ends. The final part is next.
The Last Sunday
The rain had been falling all morning, a thin, relentless mist that made the streets of the old town look like they were smeared with watercolor. I stood at the back of St. Catherine’s, the wooden pews slick with condensation, and watched the funeral director adjust the lilies on the altar. The scent of fresh roses mixed with the faint, stale smell of incense that never quite burned out. My hands were clenched around a damp handkerchief, the edge frayed from years of use. Somewhere behind me, the organist pressed a key and a low chord trembled through the nave, as if the building itself were sighing.
