You stand in the doorway with the cold still clinging to your shirt, watching your mother tremble over the old wooden box as if she has just touched a live wire.
The room smells like dust, damp cement, and raw rice. Your sisters are huddled near the stove, too young to understand much, but old enough to sense that something has changed the shape of the air. The little cloth pouch lies beside the open sack. The letter shakes in your mother’s hands.
“Mamá…” you whisper.
She does not answer right away.
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