by Kwanita
(Sound of wind whistling between the graves… distant percussion, like a slowly beating heart…)
In the small village of San Lucero, deep in the mountains, the Day of the Dead was always a time of celebration and remembrance.
The streets were covered with cempasúchil petals, the golden flowers said to open the path between the living and the dead.
The altars shone with candles, photos, pan de muerto, and small smiling figurines.
But this year… the sky was gray, the rain never stopped, and the wind blew like a lament.
The villagers had tried to light their candles in the cemetery, but the wind extinguished them one by one, as if an invisible hand were blowing on them. So they came home, soaking wet, murmuring prayers so that the souls wouldn’t be lost in the mist.
(We hear the sound of rain falling, slowly…)
Among them was a twelve-year-old girl, Rosa.
Her eyes shone like two little lanterns, and she loved listening to her grandmother’s stories—especially the ones about spirits.
That evening, her grandmother had said to her in a gentle voice:
“If the light goes out, mijita, the shadow will come and replace it. Always keep a flame burning.”
But Rosa didn’t like fear to decide for her.
So, when the house was asleep, she took a lantern, a lighter, and went out alone into the night.
(A door creaks, a squeak, then footsteps on wet earth…)
The wind howled between the crosses. The rain was falling so hard it stung her face.
And yet, Rosa moved forward, relit the candles one by one, her fingers trembling around the flame.
Each time a candle came back to life, a low murmur rose:
“Thank you, little one…”
“You read our guide…”
Rosa jumped.
Was it the wind? Was it the dead?
She wanted to reply, but her voice caught in her throat.
(A sound of footsteps in the mud. Then another. Then a breath behind her.)
Someone was following her.
She turned slowly, the lantern raised.
A figure appeared in the mist—a woman in black, her face hidden by a veil, holding a candle that would not melt.
Her skin seemed transparent, her eyes shone with a sad light.
The woman stepped forward. Her voice was soft, but icy:
“You help the dead, Rosa. But tell me… who will relight your light when yours goes out?”
Rosa took a step back.
The wind suddenly picked up, stronger than ever. Her lantern flickered…
One last flame, one last glimmer… then darkness.
(Silence. Then a breath. Then only the sound of the wind.)
In the morning, the sky had finally cleared.
The townspeople returned to the cemetery, and what they saw took their breath away:
All the candles were lit.
All of them, without exception.
But Rosa was no longer there.
They searched everywhere: the village, the river, the hills. Nothing.
But since that day, every Day of the Dead, when the wind blows over the graves, a small light wanders between the crosses. She relights the flames one by one, patiently, without ever going out.
The elders say she is Rosa, the Watcher of Souls.
And if, one evening, your candle goes out for no reason…
(low voice)
…look carefully into the night. Perhaps you will see her little lantern smiling at you, just before the wind blows your name.