Javier never imagined that one day he would cross the gate of a mansion like that.
The black iron gate was taller than two people standing together. Security cameras tracked their every move with slow, silent motion. The cobblestone courtyard stretched out before them, cold and almost lifeless. Javier parked his old motorcycle in a corner, checking the order on his phone one last time.
Delivery of documents.
Recipient: the homeowner.
He swallowed.
For three years, Javier had worked as a motorcycle delivery driver in Mexico City. He’d delivered everything: late-night food, urgent medicine, important envelopes. But a mansion like this… that was unusual. And the pay was several times higher than normal.
—Rich people—he said to himself. Nothing more.
He went up the steps with the briefcase in his hand.
The door opened. A middle-aged maid looked him up and down, with a wary expression.
—Delivery?
—Yes, ma’am.
She took the package and asked him to wait in the living room to sign the receipt.
Javier entered.
And the instant he crossed the threshold, he felt as if his heart stopped.
On the main wall, opposite the sofa, hung a funeral portrait . Black frame, white flowers, candles still lit.
And the face in the portrait…
Javier paled.
She was his wife .
It didn’t look like him.
It was identical .
The same eyes. The mole next to her lips. The same sad smile I knew so well.
The briefcase fell to the floor. The papers scattered.
—No… it can’t be…
He took a step back, feeling dizzy.
His wife — Lucia — was at home. They had had breakfast together that morning. She had told him to bring a jacket because it was cold.
So… who was the woman in the portrait?
“Are you feeling okay?” the employee asked.
Javier raised his trembling hand and pointed at the wall.
—That woman… who is she?
The woman hesitated for a second and lowered her gaze.
—She’s… the former owner of this house. She died three years ago.
Three years.
Javier felt a chill run down his spine.
“What was his name?” she asked, her voice breaking.
The employee hesitated.
—Her name was… Lucia.
Javier’s world went dark for a moment.
She heard nothing more. She only knew that she was standing in a luxurious room, feeling herself falling into an abyss.
—Sit down —said the woman—. You look very pale.
But Javier was already running away.
I had to go home.
Now.
Lucía was cleaning vegetables in the kitchen when Javier burst in.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, frightened.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared at her.
—Lucía… tell me the truth. Who are you?
She remained motionless.
-What are you taking about?
—There’s a portrait of you in that mansion. Same face. Same name. They say he died three years ago.
Lucia dropped the knife.
Silence filled the house.
Long seconds passed before he spoke.
—You already saw it… right?
Javier’s legs trembled.
—So… is it true?
Lucia sat down slowly. She covered her face with her hands.
—Forgive me… I didn’t mean to hide it from you for so long.
And then he told the truth.
Three years ago, she was the only daughter of a powerful family in Guadalajara. Her father had died young. Her mother remarried an influential… and cruel man.
He wanted to keep the entire inheritance.
Lucía began to notice surveillance and pressure to sign documents. When she refused, they staged an “accident.”
The newspapers published the news:
The heiress to the mansion dies tragically.
There was a wake. There was a portrait. There was mourning.
But Lucia did not die.
A stranger rescued her. She lost her memory for months. When she woke up, she decided to disappear.
He changed his name. His identity. His life.
And then she met Javier.
A humble delivery man. Honest. Warm.
“I thought my past was dead,” she said through tears. “I just wanted to live like a normal person.”
Javier wasn’t angry.
But I was afraid.
Fear that that past would return… with danger.
And he was right.
Two days later, a black van pulled up in front of his street.
Three men got out. Cold stares.
—They’ve already found us—Lucía whispered.
Javier stood in front of her.
—Who are you looking for?
One of the men smiled.
—We are looking for the owner of the mansion.
“There’s no one like that here,” Javier replied firmly.
“He doesn’t know who he’s messing with,” the man said quietly.
Lucía stepped forward and took Javier’s hand.
—Let me speak.
She raised her head. She was no longer the quiet woman in the kitchen.
“Did you think that killing me would end it all?” she said coldly. “I’m still alive. And I have proof.”
The man turned pale.
Shortly afterwards, the truth came to light.
Fake documents. Fraud. The planned accident.
The mansion was secured by the authorities. The portrait was removed.
Lucía officially returned… not to claim luxury, but to close that chapter .
He sold the mansion.
He donated some of the money. Some of it helped those who had been harmed by that family.
And Javier?
He continued working as a delivery driver.
But no longer with fear of tomorrow.
One night, he asked her:
—Do you regret coming back?
Lucia rested her head on his shoulder.
—If I hadn’t come back, I would have always been running away. But thanks to you… I was able to face my past.
Javier looked at her.
A woman who once had her own funeral portrait in a mansion… now smiled in a small house.
And he understood something:
Some deaths don’t happen in a coffin.
And some lives only begin… when we have the courage to bury the past.
