I sat at the table where I had served Carmen so many meals over those eighteen months, where we had eaten and talked and where she had slowly taught me how to truly see another person.
I opened the letter again and read it slowly, carefully, like it was a sacred text.
And I cried until my head hurt and my throat was raw.
With the money Carmen had left me, I paid my remaining university debts. I fixed the roof of the house that had been leaking into the upstairs bedroom. I painted the walls colors I had chosen. I replaced the gas installation that the inspector had warned was dangerously old.
But I kept the old radio, the faded photographs, and the wooden bed, because throwing them away felt like erasing something sacred, something that contained the weight of Carmen’s love and regret.
I continued my studies with less anxiety, less hunger, less fear about whether I would be able to afford textbooks or rent the following semester.
