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

“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.