One hundred pesos.
A destination.
A place that—even ugly—belonged to me.
At the ticket counter, I saw two routes. One read “CDMX,” offering anonymity and survival. The other listed the notary’s mountain town.
That’s where I made the first real decision of my life.
I bought the ticket to the mountains.
As the bus climbed, the hills closed in like a narrowing world. I borrowed a phone at a roadside shop and called Mariana—breaking the thirty-day rule, because some promises matter more than regulations.
“Leo?” Her voice shook. “Where are you?”
“I’m going somewhere, May. Grandpa left me something.”
“A house?”
“Not yet. Land. And… a warehouse. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it livable. Then I’ll come back for you. I swear.”
Silence stretched. I knew she was trying to picture a home using nothing but my voice.
“Does it have a roof?” she asked.
I laughed, throat tight.
“Yeah. Mostly roof.”
“That’s enough,” she whispered. “Be careful.”
“I love you.”
I stared at my reflection in the bus window afterward—dark circles, plastic bag at my feet. An adult by paperwork. Still a kid inside.
The notary’s office smelled of dust and old wood. Anselmo Figueroa looked like he belonged to another century—thick glasses, stiff posture, slow movements.
I placed the one hundred peso bill on his desk, still half convinced it wasn’t real.
“Sign here. And here,” he said.
My signature wobbled like it was afraid of the page.
He leaned back, studying me.
