The package showed up around noon, right as the evening light was beginning to settle over Nezahualcóyotl.

It wasn’t large or heavy, yet something about it felt different. It had been wrapped with care, sealed tightly with layers of tape, as if the sender wanted to make absolutely sure nothing inside would be damaged.

I recognized it instantly.

“It’s from my mom,” I said without thinking.

Laura glanced up from the kitchen where she had been checking her phone. She didn’t say anything—just frowned slightly, like she already knew what this meant.

I set the box on the table. It carried the marks of travel—dust in the corners, worn edges—and a scent that couldn’t be hidden. To me, it wasn’t unpleasant. It smelled like the countryside… like damp earth, like things untouched by refrigeration or factory packaging.

I hesitated.

Before I could open it, Laura stepped forward.

“Let’s see,” she muttered, tearing the tape open a little too roughly.

The lid lifted.

And the smell rushed out all at once.

Strong. Direct. Like it carried memories with it.

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