My name is Citlali.
And before you keep reading, I want you to know that I am a nahualli.
No, it's not what the priests say, nor what the gossiping old women whisper when they cross themselves. I am not the devil, nor a beast, nor a ghost.
Being a nahualli is far older than the devil, deeper than fear.
I was born in a village that doesn't even appear on maps anymore, at the foot of a hill where the ancients built temples to speak with the stars. My mother said my name —Citlali— meant "star" in the language of our ancestors, the Mexica, because I was born at night, when the moon was as thin as a fingernail and the stars fell like grains of corn.
And ever since I was a child, I knew the stars were watching me.
So were the dead.
When I was little, people in town whispered behind my back.
That maybe I had "the gift."
That my eyes were too bright for someone so quiet.
That my dreams came true.
But it wasn't until I turned thirteen, on the night of All Saints', that I truly realized what I was.
I snuck out of the house to bring flowers to the cemetery. My mother always said that on November first, the spirits come to visit and must be welcomed properly—with their food, candles, and marigolds to guide their way.
But I wanted to wait for them there, among the graves.
It was late, and dark.
And there, among the crosses and fresh mounds of earth, I saw them.
They were shadows. Some glided between the tombstones, others sat as if waiting for someone. And I, without thinking, spoke to them.
"Good evening."
And they answered.
At first it was a murmur, barely a breeze through the leaves. But soon I heard them clearly.
They told me their names, their sorrows, their secrets.
A man told me he'd been stabbed out of jealousy.
A woman asked me to tell her son to forgive her.
A child took my hand and asked if he could stay with me for a while, because he was afraid of the dark.
That was the first time.
But I never stopped hearing them after that.
—
With time, I learned not to fear them.
And I also learned that not all the dead want to talk, and not all have good intentions.
The nahuales —because that's another name for people like me— are guardians of the threshold.
In Nahuatl, my ancestors' language, nahualli means something like "the one who transforms" or "the one who hides."
Because we are not just flesh and bone: we can become what we need to be.
An owl to fly and see in the dark.
A coyote to run unseen.
Smoke to slip through cracks and hear what no one wants us to hear.
And when the time comes, we can cross to the other side.
To Mictlán.
Where they are.
The dead.
—
Now I am old. My hands are wrinkled and my feet no longer carry me as they once did. I live alone, in a little house at the edge of the cemetery, with two black cats that follow me everywhere and a bowl of salt always full at the door.
The young women in the village say I scare them.
That sometimes they see me go out at night wrapped in a dark shawl, holding a candle and a handful of earth.
That I vanish among the graves and don't return until the first light of dawn.
I don't explain anything.
Why should I?
Let them think what they will.
They don't know what I know.
—
Tonight, for example, I went down to the cemetery after the last bell rang. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting flowers. The sky was so black the stars barely dared to blink.
I walked slowly, dragging my sandals, and with every step I felt them draw near.
First one.
Then two.
Then dozens of voices.
"There comes Citlali," said one.
"My star girl," said another, in a voice I recognized.
It was my mother.
"Help us, Citlali…" begged a woman from a broken grave.
The candles lit themselves as I passed. I placed flowers here and there, leaving a bit of salt and a prayer on each grave. They gathered around me, telling me their sorrows, their anger, their yearning to return—just for one day—to see their children again.
"I can't promise you anything," I told them. "Only to listen. That's all I can do."
Because being nahualli isn't what people think.
It's not power without price.
It's not turning into a jaguar to scare the living.
No.
It's carrying all those secrets.
All that sorrow.
It's giving voice to those who can no longer speak.
And returning to the world of the living every dawn with heavier shoulders, because you know no one up here wants to hear them.
—
Some nights they ask why I'm still here.
Why I don't cross to Mictlán too, and stay there with them—where backs don't ache, nor bones, nor hearts.
But it's not my time yet.
There are still dead who need someone to listen.
And as long as they keep calling my name, I will come.
That's why I've decided to tell you my stories.
Because one day, you too will need someone to listen.
And maybe you don't know it yet… but all of us, sooner or later, meet our nahualli.
I am Citlali.
And these are the stories the dead have entrusted to me.
If you dare, stay.
But I warn you:
After reading them,
you might start hearing them too.
And there will be no turning back.