The memory of Doña Carmen’s words lingered in my mind long after I left her apartment that first day, and their weight grew heavier each time I visited. “Son… I don’t know why God put you in my path,” she said in a frail voice that barely rose above a whisper, forcing me to lean closer to hear her clearly, “but when I can no longer pay you… please don’t stop visiting me yet.” That single plea, spoken with the quiet urgency of someone facing the twilight of life, embedded itself in my consciousness like a seed that would only bloom over time. I tried to lighten the moment with a smile, a feeble attempt to reassure both her and myself, saying softly, “Don’t worry, Doña Carmen. Just focus on getting better first.” She squeezed my hand with a bony firmness that betrayed both fragility and determination, whispering, “Promise me,” and somehow I found myself compelled to nod, the word “promise” carrying a weight I did not yet understand but would come to know intimately in the weeks that followed. From that day forward, I made it a habit to visit her regularly, sometimes twice a week, despite the fact that she never actually paid the 200 pesos she had promised me. At first, I told myself she had simply forgotten. Later, I imagined she might be waiting until she could gather several weeks together to pay me in one lump sum. Eventually, I realized the truth: she had nothing to give, and yet she gave me everything that mattered in the quiet, unspoken way that only a person who has carried a lifetime of regrets can.