The November wind lashed the streets of Toledo with icy fury. Raindrops fell at an angle, striking the cobblestones as if trying to erase them from the map. Clara stood motionless by the bus stop, her coat soaked, her hands trembling. Behind her, Álvaro ‘s car screeched away, disappearing into the mist. There was no glance back, no word. Only the roar of the engine and the metallic taste of humiliation.

They had argued at the restaurant, again about money. Álvaro had mentioned her job with a contemptuous tone, implying that her salary as a high school teacher was “a poorly paid hobby.” Clara retorted sarcastically, and he, unable to tolerate the retort, left her there, as if leaving her alone in the rain were the ultimate proof of his power.

The bus would take at least an hour. She had no umbrella, no purse: Álvaro had left it in the trunk. No cell phone, no wallet. Just her and the rain.

Then, a broken voice startled her.

—Girl, are you okay?

Clara turned around. Sitting on the bench at the bus stop was an old woman with a folding cane, dark glasses, and a gray shawl draped over her shoulders. Her dull eyes darted about aimlessly. It was clear she couldn’t see.

—Yes… I’m fine —Clara murmured, though her voice betrayed the trembling.

“You don’t look it,” the woman said with a half-smile. “Do me a favor: let’s pretend you’re my granddaughter. My driver will be here in a few minutes. That way, that idiot who dumped you will see what he’s lost, if he’s still around.”

Clara looked at her, confused. The idea seemed absurd, but something in the old woman’s tone—a serene authority, a spark of humor—convinced her.

—Your granddaughter?

—Yes. My name is… hm, Inés . Call me Doña Elvira .

Clara nodded. Just a few minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled up by the curb. The driver, a tall man in a dark suit, jumped out with an umbrella.

—Mrs. Elvira, please excuse the delay.

Elvira got up slowly. Before going upstairs, she turned towards Clara.

—Come upstairs, Inés. I’m not going to let my granddaughter get soaked.

Clara hesitated for a moment, but the cold won out. She got into the car. As the doors closed and the warmth enveloped the interior, she saw a car stopped in the distance. She recognized Álvaro’s profile. He was watching them from across the street, his mouth slightly open.

Doña Elvira smiled, with an irony that only a very rich or very wise woman could afford.

—Calm down, daughter. Revenge, when served with elegance, needs no shouting.

And Clara, without yet knowing who that old woman really was, felt that her life had just turned in an unexpected direction.

The Mercedes wound its way up a hill covered in olive and cypress trees, arriving at a majestic estate with cream-colored walls and wrought-iron windows. Elvira offered Clara a towel and dry clothes; she wouldn’t take no for an answer. The house smelled of old wood and jasmine. In a display case in the living room, Clara saw photographs of politicians, businesspeople, and even a portrait of the former king shaking hands with a much younger woman, but clearly Elvira herself.

“Do you… know the king?” Clara asked, incredulous.

“I’ve met too many powerful men. Most of them are worth less than tonight’s rain,” Elvira replied, calmly lighting a cigarette.

Clara tried to leave several times, but the old woman insisted she stay at least until the storm passed. Meanwhile, she asked Clara to read some papers: contracts, letters, notes from foundations. Her voice sounded tired, but her mind was as sharp as a razor.

“You’re intelligent,” Elvira said. “And you have dignity. That’s rare. What’s a woman like you doing crying over a man like that?”

Clara lowered her gaze. She told him, without embellishment, the story: the marriage, the humiliations, the economic dependence, the loneliness.

Elvira listened in silence. Then, without changing her tone, she asked:

—And what do you plan to do?

—I don’t know. I guess I’ll go back home, pack my things… look for another apartment, another start.

The old woman nodded slowly.

“I have no children. My only nephew is waiting for me to die so he can inherit my fortune. And believe me, I don’t plan on giving him that satisfaction just yet.”

Clara smiled, thinking it was a joke. But Elvira continued:

“I need someone to help me with my affairs, someone who reads, who thinks, who won’t treat me like a useless old woman. If you accept, I’ll pay you a fair wage, and you’ll have a place to live. In return, I want loyalty and discretion.”

Clara was speechless. It all seemed too sudden, almost unbelievable. But when the driver took her home to collect her things, she found the door locked and the lights off. Álvaro didn’t answer her calls or return her messages. He hadn’t even left his suitcase inside.

That night, Clara returned to the estate. It was still raining. Elvira greeted her with a glass of wine and a smile that seemed to say, “I knew you would come back.”

Thus began an unlikely cohabitation. As the days passed, Clara discovered that Elvira wasn’t exaggerating: she owned several wineries, buildings in Madrid, and a cultural foundation. Her fortune was immense, but even greater was her loneliness. In exchange for reading reports to her and accompanying her to meetings, Clara received not only a salary, but something she hadn’t expected: respect.

As the weeks passed, her old life began to seem like a bad dream. But the past, like dampness on old walls, always finds a way to return.

Six months passed. Clara had regained her composure. The local press even referred to her as “the young collaborator of the philanthropist Elvira Campos.” The estate employees treated her with deference. She had returned to teaching literature in the afternoons, and she spent her evenings with Elvira, reading poetry or listening to old tangos.

One afternoon, while they were reviewing documents in the office, the phone rang. Elvira frowned.

“For you,” he said, handing her the receiver.

It was Álvaro .

—Clara… please, we need to talk. I didn’t know what I was doing that day. I was angry. I saw the news, you… you work for that woman, right? I want to see you.

Clara hung up without answering. But the call had left a knot in her stomach.

That same night, as she left the theater with Elvira, a man waited for her by the car. It was him. He had a gaunt face and a pleading voice.

—Just five minutes, Clara. I’m not here to argue.

Elvira remained in the background, though she didn’t miss a thing. Clara agreed to listen, on the condition that they stay in front of the gate, under the guard’s light.

Álvaro spoke of love, of regret, of empty promises. He told her he had lost his job and that without her nothing made sense. He asked her for another chance.

—Now you need me —Clara said calmly—, but when I needed you, you left me out in the rain.

He lowered his head.

At that moment, Elvira appeared, leaning on her cane.

“Is this the gentleman who left you stranded?” he asked without looking directly at her.

Álvaro shifted uncomfortably. He attempted a polite smile, but Elvira continued:

“Son, when a man leaves a woman on the street, he not only loses her respect, he loses all possibility of being worthy in the eyes of others.”

Then he turned to Clara.

—Come on. We need to talk about the foundation.

The next day, Clara learned that Elvira had made a final decision. She had signed her will: part of her inheritance would go to the foundation, another part… to her.