But the letter was in her coat pocket. She could feel it pressing against her chest, heavy as a stone. She reached the rambla at four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was still high, the light harsh and golden. She walked along the promenade, her eyes scanning the benches, the old pier, the clusters of fishermen casting their lines into the river.

She looked at the water, at the last sliver of sun disappearing below the horizon. The sky was darkening, the first stars beginning to appear. Somewhere behind them, the city was lighting up, streetlamps flickering to life, windows glowing gold and white.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. She unfolded it and saw the words: Prognosis: Advanced. Six months, perhaps less. Recommend palliative care.

“After tomorrow,” she said, “we’ll see.”

“And if I hadn’t come?”

“You look terrible,” she said.

She thought about what she would say if she went to the rambla and found him there. Hello, Mateo. It’s been a while. No. You bastard. You broke my heart. No. I forgave you a long time ago. That wasn’t true, either.

“Why now?” she asked. “Why after all this time?”

She disembarked and walked through the terminal, her footsteps echoing on the tile. She had not brought a suitcase. She had not brought anything except herself. She did not know if she was going to the rambla. She did not know if she was going to find him. She only knew that she was here, in Montevideo, for the first time in fifteen years.

I know I have no right to write to you. I’ve told myself that a thousand times over the years, and each time I put the pen down, I thought that would be the end of it. But I’m old now, and a man nearing the end has fewer reasons to be proud. Or maybe he just runs out of time to be a coward.

I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not even asking for a reply. But I made a promise to you once, a long time ago, and I broke it. I told you I’d see you in Montevideo, and then I didn’t show up. I’ve carried that with me longer than I’ve carried anything else.

Montevideo appeared on the horizon like a smudge of grey and white. The skyline had changed—new buildings, taller ones, glass and steel where there had once been low-slung brick. But as the ferry pulled into the port, she caught sight of the old pier, the one that hadn’t been used in years, and her throat tightened.

“I wanted to see you one more time,” he said. “Before I couldn’t.”