—We already have a stove—I told him once.
“Really?” Her voice sounded more alive.
—Yes. And I’m making a room… for you.
She remained silent and then blurted out “don’t cry,” as if she could see me.
A month later, another letter arrived from Sierra Azul Desarrollos. The offer increased: three hundred thousand. And underneath, a veiled threat: they spoke of “declaring the property a risk” and requesting municipal intervention.
That’s when I understood: they didn’t just want to buy. They wanted to scare.
I remembered what my grandfather’s letter said: the foundation is key. That afternoon I began to examine the floor with a patience I didn’t know I possessed. I swept, I scraped, I followed lines. Until I saw it: a perfect square marked in the concrete, like a hidden lid.
Using a lever, I applied force. The concrete rose with a slow groan, revealing a dark opening with a rebar ladder.
I went down with a flashlight.
At the back was a dry stone room, expertly crafted. And on a pedestal: a metal box and another letter in a jar.
“Leo: If you found this, you already understand the game. That land is worth what’s underneath. When I was young, I worked with an engineer who surveyed the area. There’s a deep spring, a clean aquifer. Nobody documented it properly. I did.”
