“That’s a raccoon nest,” he said.
“Here? In the city?”
“Honey, raccoons live everywhere.”
He removed it, sealed it in a special bag, and left. I stared at the hole afterward, uneasy for days.
Next came the cobwebs. I bought the longest broom I could find and started pulling them down. They fell over me like ghostly veils—on my hair, my shoulders, my face. I wrapped a scarf around my mouth and borrowed one of Don Aurelio’s hats.
Half a day. Just cobwebs.
The walls were beyond saving. I scrubbed, washed, tried everything. At the end of the first week, I gave up and went to the hardware store. I bought four cans of orange paint—my favorite color—and covered everything.
Layer after layer. Wall by wall.
When I finished, the room looked reborn.
I saved the floor for last.
It was so filthy I had to scrub it on my knees with a stiff brush and vinegar water. One dark patch refused to budge—I thought it was part of the wood. It wasn’t. It took three days to remove. Beneath it all was a wooden floor that still had life left in it.