The Last Door Closes
He rushed to Brenda’s building. The doorman eyed him.
“She moved out yesterday with suitcases. No forwarding address.”
Ernesto pounded on the apartment door. Silence.
He forced it open.
Empty. Cabinets bare. Drawers pulled.
On the counter, a folded note:
You taught me to protect what’s mine. I only followed your example. Goodbye.
The floor seemed to open beneath him.
He had been stripped clean once more — not by pride this time, but by his own arrogance.
His phone buzzed — a bank message rejecting his mortgage for poor history.
He wandered the streets without aim.
The gold watch on his wrist turned heavy.
That afternoon he pawned it for a quarter of its worth and ate street tacos — not by choice, but because he had to.
Night fell.
He sat on the steps in Revolución Park and watched children play, couples laugh, vendors push their carts — people he once considered ordinary, who now mirrored him.
