With that money I paid my university debts.

I fixed the roof of the house.

Painted the walls.

Replaced the gas installation that had been dangerous.

I kept the old radio, the faded photographs, and the wooden bed, because throwing them away felt like erasing something sacred.

I continued studying.

More peacefully.

With less hunger.

With less fear.

Two years later, I graduated.

The day I received my diploma, the first thing I did was return to the alley with a bag full of ingredients.

I made chicken broth in Doña Carmen’s kitchen.

Just as she had asked.

When the steam filled the house, I felt an absence as large as a presence.

By habit, I served two bowls.

One for me.

Another in front of the empty chair.

“I finished, Doña Carmen,” I said quietly, my throat tight. “I made it.”

Outside, evening was falling over Guadalajara, and the alley was just as small, just as silent.

But I was no longer the same young man who had come for 200 pesos.

Because sometimes you accept a job to earn money…

and end up discovering, without realizing it, the final act of love and repentance of someone who was leaving this world.