Chapter 33 - A Ghost from the Coast
Winter brought a sharp, biting chill to the capital, but inside the warm, expansive halls of the San Ángel foundation, life hummed with vibrant energy.
One afternoon, a young receptionist walked up to my office with a slightly hesitant expression.
“Mrs. Vance? There’s a woman outside asking to speak with you. She doesn’t have an appointment, and she’s... well, she looks like she’s had a very difficult time.”
I paused, looking up from my laptop. “Did she give a name?”
“She said her name was Paulina.”
The name hung in the air like a drop of cold water. I hadn't heard that name in years, not since the coastal motel room and the silent drift into absolute obscurity.
“Send her up,” I said quietly.
A few moments later, the heavy oak doors opened. Paulina stepped inside.
She was unrecognizable. The polished society woman with her designer pearls, manicured nails, and haughty smirk was entirely gone. In her place stood a frail, weathered woman wearing a worn, unbranded winter coat that was two sizes too large. Her hair was prematurely streaked with gray, her hands scarred by years of manual labor in coastal kitchens, and her eyes carried the heavy, haunted look of someone who had lived through a shipwreck and washed ashore with nothing.
May you like
She stopped near the edge of the Persian rug, unable to meet my eyes.
“Mara,” she whispered, her voice cracking like dry wood.
