The funeral was the next day.

My mother had already told me.

“It will be quick and private,” she said when I returned home. “Camila doesn’t need more spectacle.”

Rodrigo came over and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Let her go, Julian.”

I looked at his navy jacket.

Then at the missing button.

For the first time, I almost smiled.

“Of course,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll give her the farewell she deserves.”

Rodrigo did not understand.

Neither did my mother.

But somewhere, I knew Camila did.

PART 3

The funeral was held in a private chapel outside San Miguel.

My mother chose white flowers, soft music, and a short guest list. She wanted to control every face, every tear, every word spoken near Camila’s coffin. She had requested no photographs, no one standing too close, and a ceremony under thirty minutes.

Teresa Armenta had always mistaken elegance for innocence.