After the funeral

CHAPTER 4: THE APARTMENT

Valeria memorized the address before she ever saw the building.

She repeated it in her head while driving, like a spell meant to protect her from the impact. Street names. Numbers. Floor. Everything precise. Everything real.

She came alone.

The neighborhood unsettled her immediately. It was quiet in a deliberate way—tree-lined streets, small cafés on the corners, people walking dogs as if nothing in the world had ever collapsed.

This is where he exhaled, she thought.

This is where his other life breathed.

She parked and stayed in the car longer than necessary, fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.

This is where my money went.

The elevator ride felt endless. Each floor passing too slowly, as if the building itself wanted her to reconsider.

When the doors opened, she stood in front of Apartment 302.

The door opened almost immediately.

Lucía looked like she hadn’t slept. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her shoulders were tense—defensive.

“I didn’t invite you,” Lucía said.

“You live in a place I paid for,” Valeria replied evenly. “I think that earns me five minutes.”

Lucía stepped aside.

The apartment was warm. Bright. Carefully arranged.

It didn’t feel like a secret.

It felt like a home.

That realization hurt more than anything else so far.

Photos lined the wall—Mateo at different ages. A drawing taped to the fridge. A plant on the windowsill that had been lovingly watered. Evidence of presence. Of care.

“He loved the view,” Lucía said quietly. “He said it helped him feel grounded.”

Valeria moved toward the window, her heels silent against the floor.

“He never brought me here,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

Lucía shook her head.

“He spoke about you like a memory,” Lucía added. “Something that belonged to another life.”

Valeria turned slowly.

“And you believed him.”

Lucía’s jaw tightened. “I loved him.”

Valeria’s gaze dropped to Mateo, seated at the table with colored pencils, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

“He loved having somewhere else to go,” Valeria said. “That’s not the same thing.”

The air between them thickened.

“What do you want?” Lucía asked.

Valeria exhaled, steadying herself.

“I want what’s mine,” she said. “And I want the truth.”

Lucía nodded once, as if bracing for impact.

“Then we’ll both lose something.”

Valeria stepped back toward the door.

“Loss,” she said, opening it, “was his legacy. Not ours.”

As the door closed behind her, Valeria felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Not grief.

Resolve.