The tracker turned red. Retrasado por verificación de documentos adicionales.
"Bienvenido al sistema de asistencia MINJUS. Por favor, espere."
Then she went home and, for the first time in six months, closed her laptop. The blue glow of minjus.gob.cu faded to black. But the door, she realized, had finally opened.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had scanned her father's escritura (title deed), her birth certificate, her carnet de identidad , and a sworn statement from the neighbor who remembered the house before the change. minjus.gob.cu solicitudes
"What do I do?" she whispered.
The Ministry of Justice office smelled of old paper and floor wax. Elena sat on a wooden bench, clutching a folder with every document she owned. A young woman in a green uniform called her name.
Elena stared at the form. Then she picked up the pen. The tracker turned red
Elena sat in the dim glow of her desktop monitor, the ancient hard drive whirring like a restless sleeper. In the browser’s address bar, she carefully typed: www.minjus.gob.cu/solicitudes .
Elena stopped breathing.
"There is a family living there now. A mother and two children. They were assigned the house by the housing office in 2010. They have nowhere else to go." Por favor, espere
Abuela Clara crossed herself. "They said ninety days when your father was alive. He's been gone nine years."
"I reviewed your claim," Fuentes said, not sitting down. "The 'temporary occupancy' was never legally renewed after 2002. That means the state's claim expired. The house is yours. But..."
Elena slipped a note under the door: "Take your time. I waited 90 days. You can have 90 more."