It seeped into the room the way dampness creeps into walls—quietly, patiently, until one day it is everywhere and you can no longer remember what the air used to feel like before it changed.

And I had been sleeping on the test for months.

I took a deep breath, but the air scratched me from the inside.

I looked at the package again.

There was a woman’s blouse with dark stains, stiffened by time.

A gold earring.

A crumpled receipt from a pharmacy in Monterrey.

And a small chain with a medal of the Virgin.

None of that was mine.

Nothing.

I continued to remove the filling with my hands.

I found another package.

Then another one.

One of them had photographs.

I pulled them out with numb fingers.