The entire quilt had been created from memories of my visits.
Every square carried something small: a date, a meal, a sentence, a feeling.
For two years, Señora Clara had kept every little moment we shared as if it were something precious. As if a cup of tea or a simple plate of food was important enough to be preserved forever in fabric.
Then I noticed an envelope.
It rested on the pillow in the center of the bed, my name written across it in shaky handwriting.
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