I found the first one a week after the burial, inside his old toolbox in the shed. Next to it were detailed plans, down to the millimeter, for building the wall. The shaky handwriting of Guillermo, my dear retired meteorologist, read:
“My beloved Marga, if you are reading this, it means I am no longer here to protect our home. Build the wall according to the plans. It will seem like madness, I know, but trust me as you always have. Something big is coming.”
I kept working. The sun rose and warmed the stone, but I felt an inner cold that nothing could take away.
That same afternoon, Beatriz, Guillermo’s sister, appeared. She had always been a city woman: perfect ash blonde hair, designer handbag, the look of someone who considers the countryside a picturesque but uncomfortable place. At fifty-five, she never hid the fact that she thought I, a country girl, wasn’t good enough for her “intellectual” brother.
“Margarita, we need to talk. This has gotten out of hand. You’re the talk of the whole region,” he said without even saying hello.