Prelude

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Last May

"We are gathered here for the reading of the will and last testament of Alejandro Arturo Sandoval Domingo," states Leo Rickards, the family attorney.

We're seated in the sitting room of my parents' home, surrounded by the weight of grief and the buzz of old tensions. A few days after the funeral, none of us is quite breathing right.

No one expected him to die. Not like this. Not now.

"Normally," Leo continues, adjusting his glasses, "we'd contact the executor and set a formal court date. But... a few changes were made recently. And in order to honor Señor Sandoval's specific wishes, the will shall be read today. We'll address court matters afterward."

A shift in the room. A few exchanged glances. I feel it, too—something tightens in my chest.

Changes?

He clears his throat and opens the folder.

"I, Alejandro Arturo Sandoval Domingo, of sound mind and body, leave..."

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