At first, you see only handkerchiefs, an old rosary, a box of safety pins, and the folded scarves you haven’t worn since before the funeral.
Then your fingers brush against paper.
The envelope lies flat beneath a cream-colored shawl, exactly where Roberto said it would be. Your name is written across the front in his hand. Antonia. Just that. No flourish, no explanation. His handwriting looks so alive that for one terrible second, your throat tightens and you have to sit on the edge of the bed before opening it.
Inside are several documents and a letter folded in thirds.
Your hands tremble—not from age.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
