As Mateo's spade struck a patch of soft dirt near the edge of the fresh grave, he saw it: a small, cream-colored envelope, sealed with red wax. It hadn't been there a moment ago. It seemed to have fallen from the pocket of the deceased's coat just as they began the burial.
"Twenty years," Eladio murmured. "No one has ever thanked the dirt-movers." LA CARTA DEL ADIOS "Los Sepultureros"
Mateo looked up at the old oak tree. The moon was indeed rising, silver and cold. Eladio, who had been listening in silence, let out a long, shaky breath. He took the letter from Mateo, his rough, calloused fingers tracing the ink. As Mateo's spade struck a patch of soft