The bus wheezed to a stop at the edge of Santa Elena, its engine letting out a long, tired sigh like it had traveled one too many dusty roads. Lena stepped down onto the cracked pavement, her suitcase dragging behind her with a familiar thud. The air was thick with heat and the soft perfume of blooming roses. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a brilliant, almost surreal blue.
Ten years. That's how long it had been.
The town looked smaller now, like it had quietly folded in on itself. The shops still wore their sun-faded signs, and the schoolyard fences leaned tiredly, like they'd grown weary from standing guard all these years. Dust clung to the roads, and potholes yawned lazily in the sun. Yet something in Lena's chest shifted, unsettled. As if she were stepping into a memory that no longer belonged to her.
She adjusted the strap on her shoulder and headed for the town square. Children raced past her, barefoot and laughing, chasing a scuffed soccer ball. A woman beneath a floral umbrella waved from her bun stand. Lena smiled back politely, but didn't slow down.
She wasn't ready to talk.
At the far end of the square, the community center still stood. Its walls were sun-bleached, its paint chipped and stubborn. She paused at the door, fingers grazing the familiar flakes of paint. Her Tía used to teach here—literacy classes, with quiet encouragement, Spanish blended with English, and pan dulce on the side.
Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. Dust danced in the light filtering through cracked windows. The smell of old paper wrapped around her like a blanket. Lena moved slowly, allowing the silence to settle. She found the office and dropped her suitcase with a soft sigh.
She had come to start something new. A bilingual education program. A bridge between languages. A way to give back what had once been given to her.
But first—she needed land.
And that meant facing Mateo.
She hadn't seen him since the summer she left. The summer her mother died. The summer everything fractured. He hadn't called. Neither had she. Their silence had grown like vines, thick and tangled.
Outside, she shaded her eyes from the sun. Across the square, a man leaned casually against a cart stacked with vegetables—tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, eggplants. He was chatting with a tourist, pointing toward the river with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew every bend.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes locked.
Mateo.
He looked different. Broader. His hair was cropped shorter, his jaw more sculpted, but his eyes... they were the same—dark, calm, unreadable. He froze for a heartbeat, then walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
"Lena?" His voice was low, rough-edged.
She nodded. "Hi."
A moment passed. The soccer ball rolled between them. A child dashed by, laughter trailing behind.
"You're back," he said.
"For a while."
He glanced at the suitcase. "Planning something?"
She hesitated. "I want to start a school. A bilingual program. For kids caught between two languages."
He frowned slightly. "That's... ambitious."
"I know."
He crossed his arms. "And you need land."
She nodded. "Your family's land. By the river. It's perfect. There's space to grow."
Mateo looked away, his jaw tightening. "That land... It's not just trees and dirt. It's memory."
"I'm not trying to erase anything."
"No," he said quietly. "But you want to build something new. That scares people."
Lena took a breath. "Does it scare you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked past her, toward the hills where clouds were beginning to roll in.
"Storm's coming," he murmured.
She followed his gaze. "I'm not afraid of storms."
Mateo's eyes flicked back to her, sharp. "You used to be."
Lena allowed herself a small smile. "I used to be a lot of things."
She turned and walked back into the center, leaving the door open behind her.