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It began with something so ordinary I barely gave it a second thought: my washing machine started leaking. Annoyed but pragmatic, I called a repair service. A young technician showed up, fixed the issue in no time, and packed up his tools. I thanked him, paid, and walked him to the door.
Just as he reached the threshold, his cheeks flushed and he extended a tiny folded slip of paper toward me. I hesitated before opening it, thinking it might be a receipt I’d forgotten. Instead, the message read: “Please call me. It’s about someone you know.”
My first reaction? Strange. Strange enough that I nearly tossed it in the trash. But something about the young man—his lowered eyes, the tremor in his fingers—made me stop. His name was Ruben, around twenty-five, quiet and respectful. He hardly seemed like the type to hand cryptic notes to a graying woman in comfortable clothes surrounded by mismatched socks.
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