After the turmoil of the plague, Martin stayed for a while, offering to help me in any way he could. But when there was nothing left to do, he collected his life’s savings and bought a property of his own in the south of Colombia, in a region called Valle del Cauca. In honor of our friendship, he offered me cacao beans at discounted prices and extended an invitation for me to visit his land one day, which he grew more and more excited over with each letter.

When he parted, leaving me a goodbye letter where he apologized for the pain he’d caused me, I considered returning to Spain. There was nothing left for me here. But a fortuitous encounter with Catalina at the Vinces marketplace made me change my mind. She told me, over a cup of coffee and pristiños, that she’d never been close to Angélica and that she’d always longed to meet me and have a relationship with me. She told me about her lonely childhood locked in the hacienda—her golden cage—and then she squeezed my hand and asked me to stay, at least for a while longer. Her request made me postpone my trip time and time again until one day, after leaving her house, I saw a FOR SALE sign outside the coffee shop where I’d eaten with Martin. I knew then that I had to stay.

I never regretted my decision. I was happy to introduce the people of this country to the wonders of chocolate. I worked hard, but not as intensely as I had in Sevilla. I now took the time to enjoy a tinto de verano, a good conversation, or a sunset.

Since Catalina moved to town, she progressively shed her saintly image among the eligible bachelors in the region. I must admit I’d been pushing her a little bit. Since I often met people at my chocolate shop, I’d been systematically introducing men to Catalina. But she was hard to please. Still, I held hope that one day I would find her perfect match.

After Laurent and Angélica left the country, I agreed to move in with Catalina. So far, it was working out. I loved those late-evening talks with her or watching her sew for the women in town.

The peal of the doorbell woke me from my ponderings. I asked Mayra to keep an eye on my cacao beans and went to open the back door.

The postman stood before me with a parcel.

“It’s from Guayaquil,” he said, handing it to me.

There was no sender’s address, so I impatiently tore the packaging paper to shreds and removed a small cardboard box. Inside was a doll with a pillow for a dress. It looked old, her face dirty, and her blond hair, matted. Underneath the doll, there was a paper folded in half.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.

Purificación,