“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.
Echoes of a Week
The week slipped by in a blur of coffee, paperwork, and the relentless hum of the city. I spent my mornings at the café, the scent of espresso and fresh pastries filling the air, the clink of cups punctuating the conversations around me. Marco arrived each day with a stack of documents, his eyes darting around as if he feared being watched.
