She’d imagined a dusty mausoleum. But facing her, with a cloudless azure sky behind, stood a house. A central door with two upper windows either side.
A breeze blew.
Welcome in the heat.
The geraniums in the window-boxes wept their blood red tears.
The sun had long since stripped paint from the shutters, leaving wood dry and bleached. Like bones in the desert. She double checked to make sure she’d got the right place.
Casa de los Muertos.
She knocked tentatively. Her home for the rest of that summer.
He opened the door.
And she was lost.