She’d sold the couch. Donated the bed. Kept only what fit in the suitcases and the four boxes she was shipping ahead.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look at it.

Probably Mateo. Probably sorry. Probably drunk.

She turned and picked up her carry-on, the one with the little rainbow tag her abuela had sewn on years ago, and walked out the door without looking back.

Two days later, a town car dropped her off on a narrow street in Vega Baja.

The heat hit her first—wet, thick, alive. The air smelled like salt and fried food and something floral she couldn’t name. Palm trees leaned over fences painted bright yellow and blue. Reggaeton bled from a window somewhere up the block.

The apartment building before her was pistachio green, with wrought iron balconies and a chipped concrete stoop. Someone had left a pot of wilted basil by the front door.

She dragged her suitcase up the steps, sweating through her shirt before she'd even gotten the keys out.

And then, across the street, a door opened.