She folded the letter and handed it back to him. He took it with shaking fingers.
The letter trembled in her hands. She thought about her husband, the good man who had died slowly, painfully, over two years. She thought about sitting by his bedside, holding his hand, watching the light fade from his eyes. She thought about the loneliness that had followed, the empty apartment, the silence that had settled into the walls like dust. See You in Montevideo
“How long have you been here?” she asked. She folded the letter and handed it back to him
She unfolded the single sheet of paper. The handwriting was shakier now, the lines slanting downward as if the hand that held the pen had been tired. But the words were unmistakably his. She thought about her husband, the good man
The voice was rough, older than she remembered, but unmistakable. She did not turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, on the place where the river met the sky.
But the letter was in her coat pocket. She could feel it pressing against her chest, heavy as a stone. She reached the rambla at four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was still high, the light harsh and golden. She walked along the promenade, her eyes scanning the benches, the old pier, the clusters of fishermen casting their lines into the river.
She looked away, back at the water. The sun was touching the horizon now, bleeding orange and pink across the sky. “Why, Mateo? Why didn’t you come?”