Some nights, the cemetery doesn't feel like it's mine.
It breathes differently.
It watches me.
That night was one of those.
I was lighting candles near the chapel when I heard it:
a sob.
Soft at first, like someone trying not to be heard.
I thought it was one of the women who come to cry at the graves.
But when I turned, there was no one.
Only the wind… and the crying.
—
I followed the sound to the wall at the back of the cemetery.
There was a shadow there—long, unmoving—leaning against the bricks.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
The crying stopped.
Then, the shadow turned.
But not the person—only the shadow.
It detached from the wall slowly, as if peeling off paint, and stood on its own.
Black, thin, and trembling.
I couldn't move.
It took a step toward me, and the crying returned—louder now, more desperate.
It didn't speak.
But in my head, I heard a voice:
"Where is my name?"
I didn't understand.
"They buried me… without it."
And then I realized:
it wasn't a ghost.
It was a memory.
Of someone forgotten.
—
The next morning, I searched the cemetery records.
Old ledgers, faded ink.
There were dozens of graves marked "Unknown."
No names.
No dates.
Just numbers.
I went to each one, lighting a candle and whispering:
"You are not forgotten. I see you."
When I reached the last one, the air turned cold.
A breeze brushed my cheek, like a thank-you.
—
But that night, the crying returned.
This time, closer.
Inside my house.
I found the shadow in the corner of my room, curled up like a child.
"I tried," I said. "I gave you light."
It lifted its face.
Where eyes should've been, there were empty sockets.
Where a mouth should've been, only silence.
It didn't want light.
It wanted a name.
—
So I gave it one.
I chose the name my grandmother had almost given me: Ximena.
"I don't know who you were," I told it. "But you matter now."
The shadow tilted its head.
And then… it began to dissolve.
Not vanish.
Not flee.
Just fade, like mist touched by the morning sun.
—
Since then, I've left slips of paper near the nameless graves.
Each with a name.
Each with a prayer.
Some say it's silly. That the dead don't care.
But I know that names hold weight.
And forgetting someone…
is killing them twice.