Rafael’s knees weakened. He gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. His wife at home was named Aurora. He had eaten breakfast with her that morning. She had kissed his cheek and asked him to drive carefully.
The maid stepped closer. “Please sit down. You look unwell.”
But Rafael was already moving toward the exit. He gathered the scattered documents without care, thrust them into the maid’s hands, and rushed outside. His motorbike roared to life as he sped away, leaving the mansion behind but unable to leave the image burned into his mind.
He reached their small apartment within minutes. Aurora was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for dinner. She smiled when she saw him, then frowned at his expression.
“Rafael, what happened?”
He crossed the room and held her shoulders, searching her face as if confirming she was real. “Tell me the truth. Who are you?”
Aurora stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a portrait of you in a mansion on Briarstone Avenue. Funeral candles, black ribbons, your face, your name. They say you died three years ago.”