No, no.
You force yourself to walk down the stairs.
The hidden passage beneath the chapel is different from the one behind your bedroom. Drier. Older. More thought-provoking. Not improvised by your brother. Part of the house’s original structure. Architecture of escape. Priests, landowners, and terrified women from another century may well have passed through here long before you, carrying secrets that also smelled of candle wax and fear.
The hallway ends in a small room with shelves on either side.
No wine. Documents.
Tin boxes. Filled with bookbooks. A family archive that fire, thieves, and perhaps even boys like Alejandro would have difficulty getting to. A faded, oiled envelope on the wall, with your mother’s handwriting on it.
For Lucia. If you have found this, it means that you started too early.
Your knees are almost shaking.
You’re doing a great job.
Inside lie three letters, a notarized copy of an amended will, and a stack of photographs. Even before you read those words, fear and relief clash so violently that you almost have to laugh. Mother knew. She knew enough to prepare for the unexpected, to conceal the path, to leave the paper etched in stone, because the paper in the visible house had become too fragile.
The first letter was written with short, shaky lines.
