I thought about Javier in his cold cell. About Lucía trapped in lawyers and trials. About the María from two years earlier, crying with a suitcase in her hand while her husband told her he had fallen in love with her best friend. About the María under the bridge, invisible.
None of that existed anymore.
I had chosen a dangerous role and played it to the end. I didn’t feel like a hero or a victim.
Just someone who had learned to use the place where others believed she was dead.
I put the envelope away, stood up, and began walking along the Castellana among executives and tourists. No one knew who I was.
No one knew what I had done.
And for the first time, that invisibility belonged to me.
