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But he had one last task.
Matías had found it forty years ago but kept it secret. Now, the diocese wanted to digitize relics. He had promised to deliver the score by dawn.
Old Professor Matías Linares knew he was dying. Not from the cough that had rattled his chest for three months, but from the silence. For sixty years, he had directed the choir of San Miguel de Comayagua. Now, his hands trembled too much to hold a baton, and his lungs collapsed before the first verse of "Tu bandera es un lampo de cielo."
The attic stairs groaned. His granddaughter, Lucero, a music student from Tegucigalpa, climbed up with a flashlight. "Abuelo, ¿estás bien?"
Then, a gust from a broken window snatched the page. It spun once, twice, and lodged against a cobwebbed beam.
He pointed to the box. "Abre con cuidado."
Fin.




