A poor student accepted a job cleaning the home of an elderly woman who lived alone in a narrow alley. When he discovered she was ill and could barely walk, the young man did more than the work he was hired for—he cooked for her, went to the market, and took her to the hospital whenever she felt sick. For many months, the old woman never gave him the money she had promised. But before she passed away, she left a single letter that stunned him.

But that night, for the first time, when I was leaving, she asked me:

“Could you come back tomorrow?”

I returned.

For illustration purposes only
And the day after that as well.

Her health began to decline quickly.

She could barely get up on her own anymore.

Every small effort made her breathing come in short, strained bursts.

One morning, the doctor at the health center pulled me aside and spoke plainly:

“She’s very weak. I don’t think she has much time left.”

That afternoon, when we left the doctor’s office, I slowly helped her into the taxi. Doña Carmen stayed silent, looking through the window as if she were staring at a city that no longer belonged to her.

Before stepping out of the car in front of her house, she said to me:

“Diego… when I die, don’t let them throw away my things without checking the wardrobe.”

I felt something strike deep inside my chest.

“Don’t say that.”

“Promise me.”

That word again.

And once more, I nodded.

The last two weeks were extremely difficult.

She could barely taste anything anymore.

I moistened her lips with water.

I adjusted the blankets around her.

Sometimes I read the newspaper headlines aloud so she would feel that the world was still reaching her through the door.

One night she grabbed my wrist with a strength I didn’t know she still had.

“Forgive me.”

“Why?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“For not paying you.”

Something inside me broke.

“You don’t owe me anything, Doña Carmen.”

She weakly shook her head.

“Yes, I do owe you. But it won’t be money that you receive.”

I didn’t understand those words.

Two days later, when I arrived, the neighbor from across the street was standing in the doorway with red eyes.

I knew the news before he even spoke.

“She passed away early this morning, boy.”

I walked into the house feeling as if my feet no longer obeyed me.

Everything looked exactly the same.

The cup on the table.

The old radio.

The cane leaning beside the bed.

But she was gone.

The funeral service had taken her body a few hours earlier, and her children—whom I had never met—had said over the phone that they wouldn’t be able to arrive until the next day.

The neighbor handed me a yellowed envelope.

“She told me to give this only to you.”

My name was written on it in Doña Carmen’s shaky handwriting.

I sat down on the bed and opened it with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

Inside there was a single letter and a small key.