I drove out to the farmhouse. The roof sagged, the paint peeled, but it was still standing. Holding her letters, I felt her presence there, stubborn and strong. I decided to bring it back to life. I restored the land, opened a small café, and named it La Casa de Nela in her honor. Neighbors returned first, then—slowly, hesitantly—even my family. Over coffee and guava jam, we began to stitch the broken threads back together.
