Your breath catches so hard it hurts.
There is no trash inside.
No food wrappers. No empty bottles. No household scraps. Instead, tucked carefully into the bottom inside a waterproof sleeve, is an old brown envelope worn at the corners and tied with faded twine. Beneath it sits a smaller velvet box, deep green, the kind jewelers used decades ago before packaging became sleek and soulless. And under both of those things, folded with almost painful neatness, is a single sheet of paper.
Your hands start shaking before you even touch them.
You pull out the note first.
It is written in don Ernesto’s uneven block letters, the kind of handwriting formed by men who worked with tools more than pens.Office Supplies
Don’t open this near the house. Keep walking. Get to the church plaza. Sit where people can see you. Then read everything.
You stare at the note.
Your pulse thunders in your ears.
The church plaza is half a block away, past the bakery with the blue awning and the flower seller who always sits near the fountain. You do not know why the note matters, but suddenly every nerve in your body is alert. You slide everything back into the bag, grip it tight, and start walking again, faster now.
