If I had, I would’ve stayed there forever.
The bus terminal smelled like stale coffee and disinfectant. I sat on a hard plastic bench and opened the envelope. Inside was a letter from Notary Anselmo Figueroa, from a mountain town in Hidalgo I could barely pronounce.
The language was stiff and legal, but the message was simple.
My grandfather had left me land.
No water. No electricity. No road access.
Nearly a hectare—Lot 7-B.
To claim it, I needed to appear in person… and pay the overdue taxes and transfer fees.
Total cost: one hundred pesos.
One hundred pesos.
I laughed under my breath. That was two sandwiches and a soda. Obviously a scam. The letter even included a grainy aerial photo: a gray patch surrounded by forest, and at its center, a long, curved structure—half-cylinder metal, like an abandoned hangar.
Scrap in the middle of nowhere.My first instinct was to tear the letter up and find work. I needed a room. Food. A plan. I needed money to fight for Mariana—because the system doesn’t reunite siblings out of kindness. And her countdown had already started: six years, then her own black bag.
But the number wouldn’t leave my head.
