man who currently waits inside. The man I haven’t seen in seven years. The man who’s dying. Pierce hands me my luggage. I take the steps two at a time and pause at the polycarbonate glass layered door. Do I knock? Walk in, even though I am almost a stranger now? The door opens as if by magic, taking the choice from me. “You must be Emilio,” an unfamiliar woman with short silver hair greets me with a pleasant smile. “I’m Marta. Please, come in.” She steps back and opens the door fully. The woman isn’t dressed like a maid. In fact, she’s wearing an extremely expensive, designer linen pantsuit.
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