Sebastian Cervantes

The mornings in the Colombian countryside are quiet, except for the wind in the trees and the distant calls of birds. Our house, though old and worn, sits on a small piece of land surrounded by green. A year ago, I bought it cheap—nobody wanted it after the previous owner was murdered. But at forty-three, after a lifetime of scraping by, I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I just wanted a place for my wife, Natalia, and our son, Andrés, to call home.

Most of my days are spent fixing what’s broken. Natalia has painted every wall, and Andrés helps in the garden. Last week, as I dug near the avocado tree, my shovel struck something hard. A metal box, rusted but sealed tight.

We brought it inside. Andrés watched eagerly, Natalia stood behind me, arms crossed. It took effort, but I pried it open.

Inside—bundles of U.S. dollars.

At first, silence. Then Andrés laughed, calling it treasure. Natalia shook her head, eyes wide. I felt something cold in my stomach.

A hundred thousand dollars, at least. Out here, in the countryside, that kind of money doesn’t just get forgotten. It’s hidden.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Where did it come from? Was it the murdered man’s? And most importantly—was someone coming back for it?

The next morning, sipping my coffee, I noticed something that made my chest tighten.

Footprints in the dirt. Near our fence.

I wasn’t a lucky man. And I had a feeling this wasn’t luck.