Ms. Liza took me to visit Miguel Reyes. He lived in a small, tidy house in a town a few hours away, a frail old man whose eyes held a lifetime of grief. He had been following the news.
He didn't cry when we told him our part of the story. He just listened, his gnarled hands resting on his knees. When we finished, he looked out the window for a long time.
"She loved to draw the plaza," he said, his voice rough with age and emotion. "She said the lights made the world look magical." He looked at me, his eyes sharp. "You gave me answers I waited twenty-five years for. For that, I thank you."
It was the most important validation we could have received. We had done it for him, too.