The sound of earth striking wood came again and again—dull, final, unforgiving—until it no longer sounded like dirt at all, but like a door being shut somewhere deep inside the world.

Carmen did not move.

She stood rigid beside the grave, her hands clenched into the thin black fabric of the only mourning dress she owned, its seams worn smooth by years of washing. Her fingers pressed so hard they left faint white marks, as if she were trying to anchor herself to something solid before she, too, collapsed into the ground.

At her side, Dieguito clung to her leg.

Seven years old. Too young to understand death, old enough to feel terror.

His small hands fisted the skirt at her knees as though her body were a wall—cracked, trembling, but still standing between him and a world that had suddenly turned cruel. His eyes were enormous, dark, searching every face at the graveside as if hoping someone would step forward and say this was all a mistake.

No one did.

There was no music. No flowers. No speeches about eternal rest or divine plans. Only the gray mist curling low over the cemetery, dampening the crosses and the uneven stones, and that bitter smell of wet soil that settles in the throat and refuses to leave.

Pedro’s coffin disappeared beneath the earth without ceremony.

Pedro—who had lived the same way.

Quietly. Steadily. Without ever asking for more than he was given.

For years, he had worked the land of Rodolfo Méndez, the richest man in the valley, from dawn until the sky burned orange at sunset. He had tilled fields that would never be his, repaired fences he would never own, harvested crops whose profits he would never see.

And yet, every night, Pedro came home smiling.

Not the wide, careless smile of someone untouched by hardship, but a small, stubborn one—like a flame protected by cupped hands.

“As long as we’re together,” he used to say softly, spooning beans onto chipped plates by candlelight, “and the boy is healthy, we’re richer than Rodolfo with all his gold.”

Carmen would laugh under her breath at that, shaking her head as she poured water from a cracked jug.

Their house was poor, yes. The roof leaked when the rains came. The floor was packed earth. Their table wobbled unless you folded a piece of cardboard beneath one leg.

But there was peace there.

There was warmth.

There was love.

Then the fever arrived.

Not like a warning. Not like a storm you could see coming from the horizon.

It came like injustice always does—sudden, unfair, unstoppable.

Three days.

Three nights of damp cloths on burning skin. Of whispered prayers spoken so fast they tangled over one another. Of watching Pedro’s chest rise and fall with more effort each hour, as if the air itself were slowly abandoning him.

On the fourth morning, the bed was cold.

Pedro was gone.

And with him went the last certainty Carmen had left.

Now, after the burial, the walk back to the little borrowed house on the hacienda felt longer than any road she had ever known. Each step pressed the reality deeper into her bones.

She could not cry.

Not yet.

Not with Dieguito watching her face so closely, searching for signs that everything might still be all right.

He walked beside her, head down, his shoes scuffing the dirt, breaking the silence every few minutes with a whisper so fragile it nearly broke her apart.

“Don’t cry, Mommy… Daddy’s with the angels, right?”

Carmen stopped once, bent down, and wrapped her arms around him with all the strength she had left. She buried her face in his hair, breathing in the scent of cheap soap and dust and childhood.

“Yes, my love,” she murmured. “He’s watching us.”

The words tasted like lies, but they were all she had to give.

The fragile calm shattered before they even reached the doorway.

An engine roared behind them—loud, deliberate, powerful—sending dust spiraling into the air. Carmen felt it in her chest before she turned.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

That sound wasn’t just a vehicle.

It was authority.

It was ownership.

It was Rodolfo Méndez.

The truck stopped with no care for courtesy. Rodolfo stepped out, hat crisp, boots clean, shirt pressed as sharply as his expression. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him.

He surveyed the yard—the peeling walls, the skinny chickens scratching in the dirt, the silence left behind by death—the way a man examines something that has overstayed its usefulness.

“Carmen,” he said, not unkindly, not kindly either. Just flat. “I heard about Pedro.”

She nodded, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

“He was… a good man.”

A good arm.

That was what he meant.

Not a husband. Not a father. Not a life.

Carmen swallowed, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Thank you, Don Rodolfo. It all happened very fast.”

Rodolfo waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing away dust.

“Life doesn’t stop,” he said. “And business doesn’t wait for the dead.”

The words struck like stones.

“I’ll be direct. That house belongs to the workers. Pedro worked the land. You don’t. The new foreman arrives tomorrow. I need it empty.”

The ground tilted.

Carmen felt her balance falter but did not fall. She glanced down at Dieguito, who had moved closer, pressing his small body into hers.

“We just came from the cemetery,” she whispered. “I have nowhere to go. My son—”

Rodolfo laughed, short and humorless.

“Do you think I run a charity?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Two hours. That’s generous. If you’re still here after that, I’ll send my men to clean up.”

Dieguito peeked out from behind her skirt, his small fists shaking.

“You’re bad!” he shouted suddenly. “Leave my mom alone!”

Rodolfo looked down at him with mild irritation, like a man annoyed by noise.

“Teach the boy manners,” he said coldly. “Or life will do it for you.”

Then, as if cruelty could still wear the mask of mercy, Rodolfo reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—worn, folded, and heavy with implication.

He held it between two fingers.

And Carmen knew, before he spoke, that whatever was written on it would change everything.

“I’m not a monster. Pedro worked here for years… and he knew things. For that loyalty, I’ll give you something. Here. A plot of land to the north. Quebrapiés. It’s yours.”

Carmen received the document with trembling hands. She knew that name. Everyone knew it. A steep hillside, pure black rock, dry thorns. A place where not even goats stayed. Nothing grew there. There, they said, only failure grew.

—Don Rodolfo… that’s just rubble. How are we going to live there? There’s no water, no roof…

Rodolfo’s laughter exploded with the help of his bodyguards.

“Well, learn to eat rocks then,” he shouted. “I’m being generous: I’m giving you land. If you manage to grow something in that garbage dump, you’ll become rich. But do it far away from me.”

He came closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper that smelled of expensive tobacco.

—Pedro took my secrets to the grave. You take your misery to Quebrapiés. Now get out.

The truck drove off, leaving dust on Carmen’s face and a cough in Dieguito’s chest. On the threshold of the house that was no longer hers, Carmen felt a mixture of shame and rage so intense it almost burned her eyes. Then she heard her son’s voice:

—Mom… I’m hungry.

She packed what little they had in old sheets: clothes, a pot, two spoons, a knife, a threadbare blanket, a small sack of rice. She tucked away a blurry photo from her wedding and, without looking back, left with Dieguito by the hand. No one from the village approached. No one offered a ride. Fear of Rodolfo outweighed compassion.

They climbed for hours. When they arrived, Carmen’s heart sank. The terrain seemed otherworldly: black volcanic rocks, loose gravel, thorns, and an icy wind.
“Is this where we’re going to live, Mom?” asked Dieguito, searching for a house that wasn’t there.
Carmen looked up and saw dark clouds gathering like threats. She felt fear, yes… but also something more: a mother’s rage that ignited in her chest.

—Rodolfo thinks we’re going to die here —he murmured—. He’s wrong.

They built a shelter with an old tarp and branches. Two large stones served as walls. It was fragile. Dinner was cold rice with water. Dieguito ate in silence and then asked:

—Mom… if Dad were here, he would have built a real house, right?

Carmen didn’t respond with words. She hugged him.

Then the sky roared. A flash of lightning split the night, and thunder shook the mountain. The rain poured down furiously, the wind whipped the tarp, and the water rushed down, carrying mud and stones. In minutes they were soaked. A sudden jolt lifted the tarp, and everything flew away.

They were left exposed to the elements. Carmen shielded her son with her body, taking each blow in her back.
“My God…” she cried, “why?”

When dawn broke, it brought no glory. It brought destruction. The land was torn apart in deep trenches. Nothing remained. Dieguito was pale.

—Mom… I can’t feel my feet.

Carmen fell to her knees in the mud.
—Forgive me…

Then he heard footsteps. An old man appeared, hunched over, wearing a gray poncho, carrying a gnarled cane: Don Anselmo, the “madman” of the mountain.

“Cover the child,” he said. “The morning cold kills faster.”

He looked at the storm-washed ground, and his eyes changed.

“Rain doesn’t steal,” he said. “Rain reveals.”

He gave him food. While Dieguito ate, the mountain revealed its secret. The boy collected white stones that shone.

—Mom! Ice stones!

Anselmo stood up suddenly.

—Don’t throw them away…

“They’re glass,” Carmen said.

“No,” Anselmo whispered. “It’s a diamond in the rough.”

She tried it. The granite was marked. Carmen felt like the world stopped.

—The black rock is kimberlite —he explained—. Mother of diamonds.

Fear arrived alongside hope. They sold only one stone. Food, blankets, boots. But greed awoke. The jeweler called Rodolfo.

The trucks drove up, kicking up dust.

—You robbed me! —Rodolfo shouted—My mine!

—You gave me this land —Carmen replied—. I have the deed.

Threats. A shot fired into the ground.

—Ten minutes.

Then Anselmo spoke:

—The law also climbs mountains.

Sirens. State patrol cars. Rodolfo in handcuffs. Diamonds on his handkerchief. Anselmo showed his ID.

—Before I was “crazy”, I was a judge.

The clause condemned him. Rodolfo left small, defeated.

A year later, Quebrapiés was renamed La Esperanza de Pedro . Carmen didn’t build walls. She built a future. And she kept a single stone, the first one, as a memento of the night the sky fell… to show that sometimes the stars sleep beneath the earth.

Because Rodolfo thought he was burying her in the trash.

And I didn’t know that Carmen was a seed.

🍀You made it to the end… what emotion captivated you the most? Did you laugh, cry, sigh… tell me in the comments.🍀 💚🤍❤️