The alert came right on time, just like it always did – nine o’clock on the first day of every month.

I didn’t bother checking my phone. I already knew what it was. My bank confirming that the $300 transfer had gone through successfully.

Recipient: Doña Clara—my former mother-in-law.

Or more accurately, the mother of the woman who had once been my entire universe… and my deepest wound.

It had been five years, three months, and two days since Marina disappeared from my life. I never liked calling it her “death,” even though logic insisted otherwise. To me, she hadn’t died. She had vanished—leaving behind an empty side of the bed and a silence so loud it echoed through every room of the house we had built with so much hope.

They said it was a car accident. Marina had been traveling to visit her family in a coastal village six hours away. The police report was brief. The coffin arrived sealed, supposedly because the impact had been too severe. The funeral passed like a fog—faces blurred by grief, arms wrapping around me while I felt absolutely nothing.

The clearest memory I had from that day was Doña Clara—small, fragile, shaking—clinging to me as though I were the last thing keeping her upright.

In the middle of all that shared devastation, I made a promise.

Marina had always worried about her mother. A widow. A small pension. Failing health.
“If anything ever happens to me,” she once said half-jokingly, “please don’t let her struggle.”

Standing by the grave, the dirt still fresh, I swore to Doña Clara that she never would.

“I’ll take care of you,” I told her, my own hands trembling as I wiped her tears. “Every month. For food, for medicine. It’s what Marina would have wanted.”

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.