Almost everything I had.
That money was my safety net. My future. But what use was it… if I had nowhere to go?
So I signed.
No guarantees. No certainty.
Just faith.
The journey there nearly broke me.
Hours of walking through rough hills, my body heavy with pregnancy, carrying nothing but a worn cardboard suitcase. Every step hurt. Every pause filled my mind with doubt.
I cried. I questioned everything.
But I kept going.
Because I had no choice.
When I finally arrived… the silence hit me first.
The house was bigger than I expected—but completely ruined. Cracked adobe walls, a collapsing roof, broken windows. It looked like a place forgotten by time itself.
“What have I done…” I whispered.
But it was mine.
My only refuge.
The first days were brutal.
I slept on the floor. Wind crept in from every crack. Hunger gnawed at me. Exhaustion weighed on my body.
Still… little by little, I started rebuilding.
I cleaned. I patched walls. I found water in a distant stream.
I told myself this place could become a home.
Because I needed to believe it.
One afternoon, while cleaning, I noticed something strange.
An old painting—dusty, untouched—still hanging on the wall.
It didn’t belong there.
Carefully, I wiped it clean. It showed a faded landscape, signed nearly a century ago.
Something about it felt… important.
So I tried to move it.
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