The bus stopped with a squeal of brakes that echoed throughout the town square. Laura Mendoza got out slowly, carrying a worn military backpack over her right shoulder. Her combat boots touched the dusty pavement of San Miguel de Allende after three years of absence. The air smelled of freshly made tortillas and bougainvillea flowers, exactly as she remembered. Her green eyes scanned the familiar plaza: the same corn vendors, the same colonial church with its cracked bell tower, the same pastel-painted adobe houses.
But something had changed. She couldn’t pinpoint what, but a strange feeling tightened her chest. “Home at last,” she murmured to herself, adjusting the military cap that covered her brown, military-style hair. On the way home, she greeted some neighbors who recognized her. Mrs. Esperanza, the owner of the grocery store, called out to her from her doorway. “Laura, how nice to see you back, girl. Your mother must be very happy.” Laura smiled and nodded, but noticed something odd in the woman’s expression.
A trace of concern crossed her eyes before she quickly took refuge in her tent. The weight of her backpack grew lighter as she approached her childhood home. It was a modest two-story building with pale yellow brick walls and a small wrought-iron fence protecting the front yard. The plants her mother had so carefully tended looked neglected, with wilted leaves and dry soil. “Mom must be very busy with work,” Laura thought, mentally justifying the garden’s neglected appearance.
She rang the doorbell three times, as she used to when she was a child. She waited a few minutes, but there was no answer. She tried the key she kept under a pot of geros. The door opened with a creak she couldn’t remember. “Mom, I’m home!” she called as she entered, dropping her backpack in the hall. The silence hit her like a slap in the face. The house was too quiet, too tidy. The furniture was still in place, but there was a layer of dust on the dining room table that Carmen would never have allowed.
“Mama Carmen, where are you?” he called again, this time with a hint of concern in his voice. He took the stairs two at a time, checking each room. His own room remained untouched, like a shrine preserved in time. The bed was made with the same floral sheets he remembered, and his high school track and field trophies were still lined up on the desk. His mother’s room was strangely tidy, the bed perfectly made, the clothes folded with military precision in the closet, but with no recent signs of wear.