He took a suitcase out of the closet and threw it on the floor. I packed what I could with trembling hands. Clothes, documents, nothing else. I went out into the night without looking back.
I sat in the driver’s seat of the old Nissan that had belonged to my father and burst into tears. I checked my bank account: 2,700 pesos. No job for almost three years. No home.
Then my fingers touched the card in the bag.
It was black, made of metal, without logos, without visible numbers. It was only engraved with a small emblem: an eagle surrounding a shield.
I didn’t know what bank it was from. I didn’t know how much it was worth. But I had no choice.
The next morning, exhausted and with my eyes swollen from crying, I drove to a small hotel near the historic center of San Miguel de Allende. It smelled of freshly brewed coffee and old wood. It didn’t look fancy. Perfect.
“How many nights?” The receptionist asked.
“Only one,” I replied.
He handed me the payment terminal. I hesitated. I swallowed. I took out the metal card and inserted it.
For two seconds nothing happened.
Then, the receptionist’s face changed completely.
“Ehm… madam… A moment, please.
I saw him pick up a phone under the counter. A chill ran down my spine. I thought it was fake. I thought they were going to call the police.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“I’m not sure,” he said. The system marked something strange.
He went into the back office. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
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