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.

Three weeks.
Three weeks of crawling, sweating, hauling trash, battling bugs and smells that shouldn’t exist.

But when I finally stood in the doorway and looked around, I smiled—and couldn’t stop.

A month later, the place glowed. The orange walls warmed the entire street. A secondhand counter, polished until it shined. Tables neatly arranged, red-and-white plastic tablecloths. Music spilling onto the sidewalk. I sold tacos, sodas, flavored waters—and laughed with customers all day.

It was mine.
Built with my own hands. One trash bag at a time.