Her glove creaked when her fingers tightened around the bag handle. The smell of damp wood rose from the shed floor, mixed with old dust and the sweet rot of flowers someone had once left near the cemetery gate. My thumb unfolded the paper slowly because my hands wanted to shake and I refused to let her see it.
The top line was Esperanza’s name.
Not signed.
Stamped.
The bottom carried Doctor Paloma’s clinic seal and a witness signature I recognized from our own convent account books.
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