My wife was seriously ill, bedridden for months. When she was close to de:ath, her breathing shallow, she held my hand tightly and whispered:
“Love… don’t be sad… in the closet… there are five million pesos… I saved them for you and our son…”
Listening to her, I felt immense joy. Our whole lives together, saving peso by peso, and I never imagined she had been so skillful in amassing such a large sum. As soon as she closed her eyes for good, tears streamed down my face, but a small hope ignited inside me: at least we would have that money to secure our son’s future.
That same night, unable to contain myself, I ran home, my heart pounding. I opened the old wooden closet and, with trembling hands, rummaged through every compartment. Finally, in the lowest corner, I found a metal box locked with a padlock.
I was about to open it when suddenly—bam!—the closet door swung sharply, and something black, foul-smelling, and rotten fell on me. I recoiled in horror as the stench hit me straight in the nose. In the dim light, I was paralyzed when I realized they weren’t documents or money… but dec0mp0sing hu.m.an re.m.ai.ns, wrapped in an old, torn burial cloth.
I was shaking from head to toe. I hadn’t even recovered from the sh0ck when, from the bottom of the box, a small, damp, moldy notebook slid out.
On the first page, I clearly recognized my wife’s handwriting:
“Love, if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Those five million… are the price of a secret I’ve had to keep for ten years. Don’t dig any deeper, because if you dig any deeper, there’ll be no way out for our family…”
I froze, drenched in sweat. My wife’s last confession wasn’t a consolation, but rather the gateway to hell.
I sank to the floor, the notebook in my trembling hands. The smell of dampness and decay mingled with a fear that constricted my chest.
Inside were disorganized notes, some hastily written, others strangely neat. They all recounted a period I was unaware of: ten years earlier, when my wife became embroiled in a shady business involving a powerful group in our city.
They told of a rainy night when a hooded man burst into the house, handed her a heavy bundle wrapped in cloth, and said:
“Keep this, in place of your husband’s debt. But remember… this secret goes with you to the grave.”
When she opened it, she almost fainted: inside was part of a human body and an envelope stuffed with money.
The initial amount was a few hundred thousand, but over time, those people kept sending more, as a way to buy her silence. She didn’t dare spend it; she kept it all, along with that cursed “proof.” Every time she saw it, she trembled… but she couldn’t get rid of it for fear that they would “disappear” us if it came to light.
The last page read:
“Forgive me. I was going to take this secret with me, but I’m afraid they’ll come back one day. If that happens… take our son far away. Don’t come back.”
I closed the notebook, my heart pounding. I remembered faces and situations that hadn’t seemed strange before, but that now took on a sinister meaning.
Outside, the neighbor’s dog was barking furiously… and suddenly, there was absolute silence.
I turned toward the front door, which vibrated softly as if someone had just knocked on it. A shiver ran down my spine. I looked toward the room where my son was sleeping, then at the still-open box.
Without thinking, I stuffed the notebook into my jacket, closed the box, and pushed it to the back of the closet. I understood that all my questions would have to wait… if I ever got the chance.
A knock sounded at the door: slow, heavy. I took a deep breath, walked over, and opened it. The light from the hallway illuminated the silhouette of a person standing motionless, their face hidden in shadow.
In a deep, raspy voice, they said only three words:
“It’s time.”
In that instant, I knew that, from that moment on, my son’s life and mine would never be the same.
