It was all he had. Forty-two years of life fitting into three bundles. The road was made of dry, red dirt, full of potholes. The sun beat down in a way that makes your eyes hurt.
The smell of dust filled my nose and stuck in my throat. I was sitting at the back of the cart, holding onto the trunk so I wouldn’t fall, and I looked back at the smoke rising.
With each jolt, my chest tightened. I didn’t cry. I don’t know if it was shame, pride, or if the tears had dried up along with the rest of me. We walked for almost two hours until we reached a place I had never seen before.
It was a steep terrain, surrounded by dense scrubland, large stones scattered on the ground, and there in the middle, perched on a ravine, stood a hut. It couldn’t even be called a house.
It was a wattle and daub shack with cracked walls, a thatched roof riddled with holes in several places, and instead of a door, just an old rag hanging and swaying in the wind.
It looked abandoned, like a place for animals, not people. Don Lupe took the trunks down without saying a word, made a quick gesture, and left. I stood there alone, staring at it all.
The wind blew hard, bending the tall grass. There was a smell of damp earth mixed with rotting leaves. In the distance, a chachalaca called out. The sound echoed in the emptiness, and for the first time in my life, I felt what it was like to be completely alone.
I entered slowly. The floor was uneven, packed earth with loose stones. The walls had holes that let sunlight through in thin slivers. The ceiling was so low I could almost touch my head.
There were cobwebs in the corners, a strong smell of weeds and brush, and in the background a pile of old straw. There was no bed, no table, nothing, just that emptiness that weighed more than anything.
I sat on the floor, leaning against the cold wall, and stared at the hole in the ceiling. I could just make out a patch of blue sky, clean and beautiful. And I thought, “Is God watching this?”
“Is he seeing what they did to me?” Night fell slowly, bringing an unexpected chill. The wind whistled in from all sides. I wrapped myself in the blanket on the floor, using the trunk as a backrest.
I couldn’t sleep. The surrounding forest creaked. There were sounds of animals moving, branches breaking, leaves rustling. I lay tense, my eyes wide open, my heart pounding. I thought of snakes, I thought of a jaguar, I thought of bad people.
But the worst thing wasn’t the fear of what might enter, it was the fear of what had entered me: the shame, the pain, the feeling that I was worthless, that I had become a nuisance, a burden, a nothing.
And for the first time there, alone in the darkness, I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to die, if it wouldn’t be easier to lie down there and never wake up again. But the sun rose, and with the morning light came something strange.
It wasn’t hope, it wasn’t strength, it was just stubbornness. That foolish stubbornness of someone who has suffered so much that they no longer know how to surrender. I got up with an aching body and a dry mouth and went to the trunk to get a piece of piloncillo I had saved.
I sat on the doorstep looking at the mountain and chewed slowly. It was then that I saw in the darkest corner of the house, near the back wall, under a pile of old straw and dust, something that shone in the sunlight.
I got up, curious, and went closer. It was a thick, rusty iron ring, bolted to the ground. It looked old, very old, and didn’t fit in with the rest of that miserable place. I stared at it, confused.
Who would put an iron ring on an abandoned hut? What for? I knelt slowly, my joints creaking, and ran my hand over the ring. It was cold, heavy, firm. I pulled gently, but it didn’t budge.
Then I pulled harder, and suddenly a loud snap echoed through the woods. I froze, my heart raced. Blood rushed to my head. I lay there on my knees, unable to move, waiting for something—an animal, a man, anything.
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