The rain in Guadalajara beat heavily against the corrugated tin roof of my small, rented room as I sat staring at the cream-colored envelope. My name, Diego, was scrawled across the front in shaky, deliberate cursive—Carmen’s handwriting, unmistakable despite its tremor.

That evening, after the kitchen closed its doors for the night, I stood alone on the front porch of Casa Carmen as a gentle rain began to fall against the tin roofs of the old downtown alley. The neon sign above buzzed softly, cutting through the damp evening mist.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the original, yellowed letter Carmen had left me so many years ago. The ink was nearly faded away entirely, but every single word remained permanently burned into my heart.

A sudden gust of wind swept down the alleyway, carrying the faint, unmistakable rustle of paper and the soft creak of an old wooden bed. I smiled up into the rainy night sky, whispering into the cool air, "We kept our promise, Carmen. Your house will never be lonely again."