That was another lie.
When she crossed through security and disappeared into the crowd, you stood there for a very long time. You had known loneliness before. You had known it the day your wife died, the first night Sofía slept in her own room without needing you to check under the bed, the mornings when the house felt too quiet. But this was different. This was the loneliness of a chapter closing with no promise of what came next.
Still, life continued.
You opened the workshop every morning. You swept the floor. You answered the same familiar customers with the same familiar jokes. In the evenings, you made simple meals and watched soccer on television. Sofía still called, though less often now. Some weeks every Sunday. Sometimes every other week. Once in a while, she sent money. You almost never spent it. Instead, you tucked it inside a metal box because you kept telling yourself that if she ever needed help, you would be ready.
Then, about six months after her wedding, the post office called.
There was a package for you.
The sender was Sofía.
You carried it home in both hands. It was heavier than you expected. The box had been wrapped carefully, almost lovingly, each corner reinforced with extra tape. When you opened it, you found a pair of brown leather dress shoes. Men’s shoes. Well made. Expensive-looking.
You turned the box to check the size.
Forty-one.
