After my mother was cremated, my sister grew curious and decided to peek inside the urn. She lifted the lid, leaned in, and screamed, “Oh…” Her voice cracked against the quiet room, and I rushed over. Right on top of the fine gray ashes lay a thin, scorched strip of paper. It was folded over several times, its edges burnt and fragile.
We froze, staring at it like it didn’t belong to this world. Then, carefully, Saira reached in with two fingers and pulled it free. It looked like some kind of old receipt or handwritten note, the ink blurred but still legible in places. We read it together: “If you found this, please ask Esme about the house on Calle Luna. I’m sorry.”
For a moment I thought I was seeing things. Esme—our mother’s younger sister. She lived a few hours away and had long since drifted from our lives after a bitter falling-out with Mom. No one ever told us what happened, just that after Grandma died, the two sisters stopped speaking.
Saira looked at me, wide-eyed. “What house? Calle Luna? Do you know what that means?”