Beside them lay a small white piece of paper, folded in half with almost obsessive precision. And right on top of that piece of paper, glistening in the low morning light, shone her wedding ring.
I remained still for several seconds, unable to process what my eyes were seeing. My heart began to pound so violently that I was short of breath. With trembling fingers, I grasped the piece of paper and immediately recognized my husband’s firm, distinct handwriting.
“Elena, I beg you with all my heart: don’t try to call me. At 11:00 sharp, you must be at the address I’ve noted below. Today, finally, the time has come for you to meet her. When you get there, you’ll understand everything.”
He reread those words once, twice, three times in a row. A feminine noun kept ringing in my head like a funeral bell: she . Who could this mysterious figure, hidden in the shadows for decades, be?
