My hands shook as I tore open the crisp white envelope. Inside, Carmen’s elegant but shaky handwriting filled the single page.
My dear Diego, the letter began. If you are reading this, my tired heart has finally found its rest. I must ask for your forgiveness. I lied to you, week after week, about having no money to pay you. The truth is, I had to be absolutely sure about who you were before I could hand over the burden I have carried alone for twenty-five years.
My breath caught in my throat as I read the next lines.
My youngest son, the one you reminded me of, didn’t just move away. He was a brilliant young archeologist who passed away in an accident decades ago. Before he died, he discovered an undocumented stash of historical gold coins during an excavation on an old family estate. Knowing the local authorities were corrupt and would seize it, he hid it. I have spent twenty-five years hiding in this broken house, pretending to be a penniless widow so no one would ever suspect what lies beneath my bedroom floor.
The paper crinkled under my tightening grip.
You didn’t just clean my floors, Diego; you fed a starving old woman and held my hand when the pain was too much to bear. You proved that true kindness still exists in this world. The key to the heavy padlock is taped to the back of the faded photograph of my son hanging in the hallway. The space beneath my wooden bed belongs entirely to you now. Use it to finish your studies, buy a proper home, and never forget that you were the miracle I prayed for.
To see what Diego finds beneath the creaking wooden bed, continue to Part 3 below.