Three months after burying him, I arranged the flowers for his wedding to another woman.

I stared at the name until the letters began to blur.
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Simón Aranda.
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I’d never heard of him.
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But whoever had left that envelope knew where I lived. And more importantly, they knew I was asking questions.
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I called Alba.
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“Someone left a photograph at my door.”
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“Of what?”
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“The van from Baltasar’s accident. There’s a name written on the back.”
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“Don’t go looking for him alone, Irene.”
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“I wasn’t planning to.”
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That was a lie.
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By eleven the following morning, I was standing outside a small auto repair shop on the outskirts of Segovia.
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A faded sign above the entrance read:
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ARANDA MOTOR REPAIRS
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A man in his late fifties emerged from beneath a raised vehicle, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth.
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“Can I help you?”
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“Are you Simón Aranda?”
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He stopped wiping his hands.
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“Who’s asking?”
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“My name is Irene Varela. I was Baltasar Araujo’s partner.”
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The cloth slipped from his fingers.
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For several seconds, he said nothing.
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Then he glanced toward the street.
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“You’d better come inside.”
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His office smelled of coffee and motor oil. A calendar from two years earlier hung crookedly beside a filing cabinet.
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Simón closed the door.
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“I wondered how long it would take someone to find me.”
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My pulse quickened.
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“Do you know who died in that van?”
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He lowered his eyes.
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“Yes.”
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I gripped the arms of my chair.
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“Then tell me.”
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Simón sat opposite me.
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“The man’s name was Julián Ferrer.”
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I felt the blood drain from my face.
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“Who was he?”
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“A mechanic. He worked for me occasionally. He also did jobs for the Araujo family.”
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I struggled to breathe.
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“Why was he driving Baltasar’s van?”
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Simón looked toward the window.
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“That’s the question I’ve been asking myself for three months.”
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He explained that Julián had borrowed the van on the evening of the accident.
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The vehicle had caught fire after leaving a rural road.
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Because of the damage, the authorities had initially relied on the vehicle’s ownership and information supplied by the family while establishing the victim’s identity.
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“Did you tell the police?” I asked.
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“I told them Julián might have been driving. I gave a statement. But nobody contacted me afterward.”
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“Why didn’t you find me?”
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His expression hardened.
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“Because Beatriz Araujo came here two days after the funeral.”
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I went cold.
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“She told me Julián’s family had already been informed and that the identification was being handled properly. She warned me not to spread rumors.”
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“Did you believe her?”
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“I wanted to.”
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He opened a drawer and removed a photocopy of an old work order.
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At the bottom was Julián’s signature.
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Beside it was a note:
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Van collected at 6:40 p.m. Authorized by B. Araujo.
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I stared at the initials.
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Beatriz Araujo.
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Baltasar’s mother.
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“Why would she authorize him to take the van?”
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Simón shook his head.
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“I don’t know. But I think your questions deserve an answer.”
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I left the workshop with copies of the documents and went directly to a lawyer.
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Her name was Marta Salcedo.
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She listened without interrupting as I explained the funeral, the wedding, the death certificate, and Simón’s account.
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When I finished, she folded her hands.
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“Irene, if Baltasar is alive and someone else was buried under his name, this isn’t simply a family deception. It could involve serious criminal offenses.”
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I nodded.
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“But we need to establish the facts. We can’t assume everyone who signed a document knew it was false.”
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She helped me prepare a formal complaint requesting an investigation into the identification of the deceased.
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I also gave the police the wedding venue, the date, and the name Adrián.
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For the first time in ten days, I felt as though I was doing something other than chasing my own memories.
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Three days later, my phone rang.
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It was an unfamiliar number.
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“Irene?”
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I recognized the voice immediately.
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Baltasar.
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I couldn’t speak.
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“I know you’ve been asking questions.”
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My knees weakened.
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“Who did we bury?”
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Silence.
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Then he whispered:
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“I’m sorry.”
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I closed my eyes.
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“Don’t you dare apologize before answering me.”
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He took a shaky breath.
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“His name was Julián.”
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I pressed my hand against the wall.
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“You knew?”
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“Yes.”
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The room seemed to tilt.
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“You let me bury another man?”
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“Irene, please—”
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“YOU LET ME STAND BESIDE A COFFIN AND BELIEVE YOU WERE INSIDE!”
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He said nothing.
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I could hear him breathing.
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Then I asked the question that had been haunting me since Las Encinas.
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“Who is Celia?”
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Another silence.
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“My wife.”
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I laughed.
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It was a terrible sound.
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“Your wife?”
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“We got married ten days ago.”
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“And what was I?”
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His answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
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“Someone I loved.”
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I hung up.
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For a long time, I sat on the kitchen floor.
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Not crying.
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Not screaming.
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Just staring at the wall.
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Because there was something worse than discovering the man you loved had betrayed you.
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It was discovering he’d watched you mourn him.
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And had done nothing.
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The investigation unfolded over the following months.
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Authorities established that the man buried under Baltasar’s name was indeed Julián Ferrer.
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Further inquiries revealed that Baltasar had been preparing to leave Spain when the accident occurred.
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He had financial problems I knew nothing about, including substantial debts connected to his family’s business.
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The fire created an opportunity.
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Instead of correcting the mistaken identification, Baltasar allowed the confusion to continue.
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He later obtained documents under another identity through fraudulent means.
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His family had helped conceal his whereabouts.
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But Elisa’s role turned out to be more complicated than I’d feared.
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Investigators confirmed that her electronic signature on the death certificate copy did not establish that she’d participated in identifying the body.
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She eventually admitted that she’d learned Baltasar was alive after the funeral.
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She hadn’t known about the plan beforehand.
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And she was the one who had secretly sent me the photograph and Simón’s name.
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When I asked why she hadn’t simply told me the truth, she began crying.
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“I was afraid of my mother. Afraid of what my brother would do. And ashamed of what we’d allowed to happen.”
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I listened.
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But I didn’t comfort her.
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Some apologies deserve to be heard without being accepted.
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Celia, the woman Baltasar had married under the name Adrián, was devastated when investigators contacted her.
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She’d believed she was marrying a divorced businessman.
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She knew nothing about the funeral.
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Nothing about Julián.
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And nothing about me.
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I met her once, at her request, in a quiet café.
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She was younger than I’d expected.
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Her hands trembled around her coffee cup.
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“I thought he was a good man,” she whispered.
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“So did I.”
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She looked at me.
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“Do you hate me?”
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I shook my head.
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“No. We were both lied to.”
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We sat together for nearly an hour.
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Two women who had loved the same man.
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Two women who had been given different versions of his life.
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And neither of us had known the truth.
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Eventually, the authorities brought criminal proceedings connected to the false identity, fraudulent documentation, and the handling of the death records.
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The case took time.
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There were hearings, statements, and days when I wished I’d never opened that envelope.
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But one detail stayed with me.
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Julián Ferrer had a daughter.
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Her name was Lucía.
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She was twenty-one.
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For months, she’d believed her father had disappeared without saying goodbye.
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When investigators finally confirmed his death, she received the truth she’d been denied.
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I met her outside the courthouse.
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She was holding a photograph of her father.
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“He always called me on Sundays,” she said. “When he stopped, I thought he didn’t want me anymore.”
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I felt tears gathering in my eyes.
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“I know what it’s like to believe someone you love has vanished.”
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She nodded.
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“But you got to find out he was alive.”
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I looked at her.
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“Yes.”
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She pressed the photograph against her chest.
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“And I found out mine was dead.”
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I had no answer.
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Because she was right.
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For months, I’d thought my grief was the center of this story.
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But someone else had lost a father and been denied even the dignity of knowing where he was buried.
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A year after the wedding at Las Encinas, I received a letter from Baltasar.
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I recognized his handwriting immediately.
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He said he regretted everything.
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He said he’d panicked.
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He said he’d loved me but hadn’t known how to escape the life he’d created.
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At the bottom, he’d written:
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I hope one day you can forgive me.
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I folded the letter and placed it in a drawer.
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I didn’t answer.
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That spring, Alba and I received a commission to prepare flowers for a small wedding in the countryside.
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The bride wanted white roses and eucalyptus.
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Nothing extravagant.
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As I arranged the bouquet, Alba asked:
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“Do weddings still make you sad?”
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I thought about it.
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“Sometimes.”
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“And today?”
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I looked at the flowers in my hands.
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“Today they remind me that people can still mean what they promise.”
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Alba smiled.
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I tied the final ribbon and stepped back.
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For the first time in more than a year, I felt proud of something beautiful without wondering what it might be hiding.
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Three months after burying Baltasar, I’d arranged the flowers for his wedding to another woman.
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But the cruelest part wasn’t that he’d chosen someone else.
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It was that he’d made me grieve a man who was still alive while another family searched for a man who was truly gone.
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And if I learned anything from that terrible year, it was this:
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Love can survive a painful truth.
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But it cannot survive a life built entirely on lies.