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The girl came down to shore before the sun fully cleared the trees. Light caught low in the trees behind her, thin bands of gold threading through the gaps between trunks and leaves. The tops of the trees held it first, edges glowing warm while everything below stayed in shadow. As she walked, the light shifted in patches across the path, flickering through branches like something moving just out of sight.
The air was cool where the forest still covered the ground, then opened warmer as she neared the dunes, where the wind carried salt and brightness in from the water.
The path from the village was already familiar to her feet. Packed dirt, then loose sand, then the first stretch of driftwood and shells where the ground stopped feeling stable.
The ocean sat low and flat this morning, the tide still pulling back. Everything smelled like saltwater left too long in the sun.
She kept walking the edge of the sand where it was firmer, eyes looking down more often than not. She was used to what the shore looked like after storms. Seaweed piled in dark, wet clumps near the tide line, broken pieces of driftwood, and clusters of sea grass. Sometimes whole fishing nets would come in half-buried in sand, knotted with shells and bits of rope. She learned to step over cracked coconuts split open on rocks, and shards of plastic crates.
There was something new today though. Something that she would've missed if not for the rising sun catching light against gold.
Something dark lay ahead, just past where the champagne foam stopped breaching the sand.
Gulls circled without urgency, as if deciding whether it was worth the trouble of hunger. They cried once, uninterested, and turned away before deciding that it wasn’t.
That’s when she stopped completely. The wind pushed hair into her eyes, and she pulled her bangs back to stare more at the object on shore.
At first it looked like driftwood. Something heavy washed in and left behind.
She stepped closer.
The sand changed under her feet from dry and loose to damp and packed. Each step made a softer sound. The smell shifted. It seemed as though there was less salt in the air, overwhelmed by the power of something metallic under it.
Only when she was a few steps away did she see understand why.
It was a man. His face was turned slightly into the sand, wet grains stuck along his eyelashes and jaw. Salt crusted his lips into something pale and sealed. Seaweed threaded through his hair in a dark knot. His skin held the gray-green tint of being long underwater. His clothes, what little left of it, were dark, heavy with water, pressed flat against his body.
She knelt to meet the shore his body laid on.
The sand gave under her knees, cold and damp. She leaned forward slowly, careful not to disturb him more than needed.
Her hand hovered over his shoulder before she touched him.
Cold.
Not the cold from the water. She can tell he had been still long before he swept to shore. She pressed two fingers under his jaw and held them there.
No pulse.
This close, the man looked stranger than he did before.
Not because he was dead. She had seen livestock laid out after sickness. She had stood beside neighbors during funerals. The stillness of a body no longer frightened her.
It was everything else.
His clothing didn’t resemble anything worn in her village. Waterlogged. Heavy. Stitched together with techniques she didn’t recognize. Faded patterns ran along the edges, nearly hidden beneath dirt and salt.
She frowned.
¿De dónde vienes?
She reached forward and carefully pushed wet hair away from his face.
Still cold, all the way through.
A shiver crawled up her arms despite the growing warmth of the sunrise.
A gull cried overhead. The sound made her glance up briefly before her attention returned to him.
When she looked down again, there was a sharp flash in her peripheral vision. From a distance, she thought that it may have been gold. However, she could see now that a polished wire was tied around his neck. Something rested at the end of the wire, something hard and pressed against his chest beneath his clothing.
She hesitated.
Then carefully pulled the damp fabric aside.
A pendant rested there.
The cord was braided from some material she couldn’t identify, slightly rusted by water and age. The carving was smooth from years of handling. She rubbed mud away with her thumb.
A face stared back at her.
Or, perhaps it was a spirit.
Its features were unfamiliar. The carving was worn enough that she couldn’t be certain if it was even a face. The wood felt surprisingly warm compared to the rest of him.
She turned it over to find nothing.
No initials.
No cross.
No image of a saint.
Not a single marking that she understood.
The pendant swung gently as the wind shifted. She let it fall back against his chest. For a while she simply listened to the beach, wondering what would come next.
The rush of waves. Palm fronds rattling farther inland. The distant call of birds waking in the trees.
The ocean had carried him here from somewhere. That much was obvious. The nearest settlements should have recognizable clothes.
She knew that with sudden certainty. This man belonged to no one she knew.
Another wave reached up the beach. Cold water soaked into the edge of his sleeve. The tide lingered around him before slipping away again, dragging sand with it.
The girl watched the water retreat.
Then return.
Then retreat once more.
Soon the sun would climb higher. More people would come to the shore. Or perhaps no one would.
The sea would keep working at him either way.
No puedes quedarte aquí. The thought came quietly.
She looked toward the tree line where the mountain rose beyond it, dark and green in the morning light.
Then back at the man.
The ocean had brought him back to land. The least she could do was give him somewhere else to rest.
If not, then by afternoon the water would climb higher. Storms came without warning this time of year. She seen entire sections of shoreline disappear overnight beneath rough surf. Things left on the beach rarely stayed where they were.
It wasn't just the sea.
Birds would find him eventually. Crabs too. The sun would spend all day beating down on the open sand. Wind would strip away what the water left behind.
Inland was different.
Roots gripped the earth even during heavy rain. Trees broke the worst of the wind. The ground stayed cool beneath fallen leaves. When people buried their dead, they did not leave them for the ocean to reclaim.
She glanced toward the dark line of forest beyond the dunes. Somewhere up there was soil deep enough to keep him safe.
Safe from the tide.
Safe from scavengers.
So, she grabbed him under the arms and pulled. His body moved awkwardly through the sand, leaving a dragged line behind them that filled in almost immediately with wind. She had to stop and reset her grip more than once as the ground changed from soft beach to uneven dune.
The farther she went, the more the environment shifted. Salt air fading. The smell of wet earth starting to come through instead. Leaves underfoot. Damp bark. The sound of the ocean dropping away behind her.
When she reached the lower slope, the ground grew harder to move through. Roots broke the surface and caught at his feet as she dragged him over them. By the time she reached higher ground, her hands were smeared with dirt up to the wrists.
She stopped where the soil changed. Heavy with moisture. When she pressed her fingers into it, it held shape instead of collapsing.
She began to dig.
At first with a stick she found nearby.
The soil gave easily for the first few inches, dark and damp from recent rain. Leaves peeled back beneath her hands. Thin roots snapped with soft, fibrous pops. For a moment, she thought the work might be simple.
Then the stick struck a stone.
The impact jolted through her wrist.
She tried again from another angle.
Stone.
The wood splintered near the middle with a dry crack, leaving her staring at the broken end in frustration. The forest around her carried on as if nothing had happened. A breeze moved through the trees, stirring leaves into a soft rustling whisper. Somewhere farther down the slope, a bird called once and fell silent.
The girl tossed the broken stick aside. Then she knelt and began using her hands. The earth was cool beneath her fingers. But then, the sun climbed higher. Sweat gathered along her neck and soaked the collar of her dress. Dirt stuck to her skin wherever moisture touched it.
She dug anyway. Handful after handful. The smell of soil grew stronger the deeper she went.
Wet earth, crushed roots, the faint scent of decaying leaves buried beneath the surface.
Small stones dug into her palms. Root fragments scraped across her knuckles. More than once she uncovered a rock she thought she could pull free, only to discover it buried deeper than she expected. Each time she worked around it instead.
Time passed. The shadows shifted. Sunlight moved overhead, turning from pale gold to bright white.
Her fingertips began to sting.
She ignored it.
When she reached for another handful of dirt, she noticed blood smeared across one thumb.
She couldn’t remember when she’d gotten a cut. There were many more too. Thin red lines crossing her fingertips. Dirt packed into them almost immediately. She wiped her hands against her skirt and kept digging.
At some point, she looked over her shoulder toward the body. The man hadn’t changed. He lay where she had left him, silent beneath shifting patches of sunlight filtering through the trees.
As if waiting.
The sight tightened something in her chest. She turned back to the grave. Her arms ached. Her shoulders burned every time she reached forward.
At one point she sat back on her heels and considered stopping.
No one would know. No one else was here. The hole was already deeper than most animals could reach.
It would be enough.
Wouldn’t it?
The girl looked toward the man again. Toward the unfamiliar clothes. The pendant resting against his chest.
He had come from somewhere.
Someone had known his name once. Someone had spoken to him. Eaten beside him. Waited for him to come home. The thought settled heavily in her stomach.
She couldn’t leave him like this. Not after dragging him all this way. So she kept digging.
The afternoon stretched around her. Birdsongs rose and faded. Insects hummed among the undergrowth. Sunlight shifted westward, turning warmer as the hours passed.
Eventually, the hole was deep enough.
When she finally sat back, she was breathing hard with dirt covered her hands to the forearm. Her nails were black with soil. Every finger throbbed. Her shoulders felt as though someone had tied stones to them.
She stared at the grave for a moment.
Then slowly pushed herself to her feet. The hard part wasn’t finished, but at least now he would have somewhere to rest.
Somewhere the tide could not reach.
Somewhere the wind would not uncover him.
Somewhere the world could leave him in peace.
When she lowered him in, his clothes stuck to the sides of the pit. The damp fabric dragged against the packed earth with a soft scraping sound before settling at the bottom.
The frantic sounds of midday had begun to fade. The sunlight filtering through the canopy had turned warmer, casting long bands of gold between the trees. Dust motes drifted through the light. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a coquí called.
She looked down.
The grave fit him almost exactly.
His body lay on dark soil still damp from the earth she had disturbed. One arm rested awkwardly against his side where it had fallen. The other lay partially beneath him, hidden by folds of clothing.
The sea had left its mark on him.
Salt still whitened parts of his skin. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead and temples. Sand remained caught in the corners of his eyes and along his jaw despite everything she had done to brush it away.
Yet, his face looked younger now than it had on the beach. Or perhaps, the environment was simply more peaceful.
The terrain she dragged him over had shifted him slightly, turning his head toward the open sky above the grave.
The light caught his features differently here.
Softer.
Less like something discarded by the ocean and more like someone sleeping beneath a patch of afternoon sun.
Everything about him suggested a life she could not imagine.
A language she did not speak. A home she would never see. The pendant still rested against his chest. Its carved surface glowed amber where a shaft of sunlight reached it through the trees. The cord had twisted during the journey inland. One side disappeared beneath his collarbone.
She wondered if someone had made it for him.
A parent?
A friend?
Or a lover?
Someone, somewhere, had known the sound of his voice. Someone had known what made him laugh. Someone had known the color of his eyes when they were open.
The sun was dropping lower now.
The light deepened into shades of gold and copper, spilling through the trees and pooling across the floor of the grave. Shadows stretched over his body inch by inch.
Soon the light would disappear, and there would be nothing left to see.
The realization settled heavily in her chest. This would be the last time anyone looked at him.
Not as driftwood, or a corpse.
As a person.
A stranger, perhaps, but a person all the same.
“Descansa en paz. Que la tierra te guarde,” she whispered.
The words barely rose above the rustling leaves as she reached for the first handful of earth. Then she started covering him. Dirt first. Then leaves. Then more dirt. She kept going until nothing of him remained visible.
When she finished, she stood up and wiped her hands on her skirt. The dirt stayed in the lines of her palms.
She turned and walked back down the mountain.
Eventually, the soil above the grave settled back into place.
Loose earth folded into itself. Small stones stopped shifting. The surface looked like any other patch of forest floor once the wind had carried in enough leaves to cover what had been disturbed.
Rain.
It scattered in impacts, then broke into a steady fall through the leaves. Water ran down bark in thin, uneven lines. The ground darkened slowly, evenly, until it matched the surrounding soil again.
One morning, something broke through the soil.
A few blades of grass, pale at first. They broke through the exact place the soil had been turned, then spread outward in uneven clusters, thicker where the ground stayed damp longest.
The forest continued around it without pause.
Insects moved back in.
Ants traced new routes over the mound, adjusting their paths as if nothing beneath them had changed. Beetles disappeared under damp leaves. Flies hovered briefly over wet soil before drifting away.
The cycle repeated. Rain softened the surface. Sun dried it. Then the grass thickened in places where water gathered after rainfall.
Moss followed. At first, as small green stains along fallen branches. Then in thicker patches that crept over roots exposed during the digging.
Animals began to move through the area more often.
Birds landed briefly in the thicker grass, then lifted again without feeding for long. Lizards crossed it in quick movements, pausing only when sunlight broke through the foilage. Small animals turned the soil at the edges, then moved on as if the ground did not offer anything unfamiliar enough to hold them.
Footsteps did not leave lasting marks.
Grass bent under weight, then rose again within hours, thicker than before. Disturbed soil did not stay exposed for long. It darkened, softened, and closed over itself again without waiting for rain to reset it.
Dry seasons came and went.
Grass grew taller there than anywhere else nearby.The surrounding forest floor began to look thinner by comparison. The animals changed their patterns again. They no longer crossed it quickly. They adjusted their paths around it.
Birds circled once before landing. Insects gathered in heavier numbers above the grass. Even larger animals paused at the edges longer than they used to, as if curious.
She did not return for a long time. The mountain and forest changed in her absence.
New saplings rose in gaps where old trees had collapsed. Vines climbed trunks that had once stood bare. Paths narrowed until they became difficult to distinguish from the forest floor around them.
When she finally climbed the slope again, she realized how much she had forgotten. The mountain had continued living without her.
A coquí called somewhere deeper among the trees. Another answered. The sound echoed briefly through the undergrowth before disappearing beneath the rustle of leaves overhead.
She kept walking.
At first she thought she recognized a cluster of stones. Then she realized the stones were smaller than she remembered. Or perhaps, she had simply been younger.
A tree she thought might mark the place had grown wider than she could wrap her arms around. Its roots now pushed through the ground like ridges of dark wood, splitting the soil where none had been disturbed before.
She stopped eventually. Not because she had found the grave site, but because she wasn’t sure she could. The forest stretched in every direction around her. Green upon green. Layers of moss. Ferns. Vines. Grass. Every patch of ground looked capable of hiding the memory she had come searching for.
She stood quietly for a while. Then she stepped forward and lowered herself to her knees. She rested her palms against the earth.
The years between then and now had blurred together until she could no longer separate one patch of forest from another.
She closed her eyes.
The sounds of the mountain seemed louder that way. The distant chatter of birds. The slow creak of branches moving against one another. The hum of insects hidden somewhere in the undergrowth.
Life continued all around her.
“Lo siento,” she whispered.
The words vanished into the air almost immediately. Her voice was barely louder than the wind moving through the leaves. She remained there for a long time afterward. Long enough for sunlight to shift through the leaves. Long enough for shadows to stretch across the forest floor.
Her hands stayed resting against the wrong patch of earth. Several feet away, hidden beneath years of roots, moss, and soil, the man she had buried remained untouched by her presence.
The sea grew restless later that year. The air stayed heavy for days. Birds disappeared inland.
Then the storms came.
Rain hammered the mountain for so long that the difference between day and night disappeared. Water poured through the leaves in solid sheets. Branches whipped violently overhead, their leaves flashing silver-green whenever lightning split open the darkness.
The forest groaned.
Tree trunks bent under the force of the wind. Vines strained against the branches that held them. The sounds of the forest never stopped. Wind screaming through the forest. Rain striking leaves. Wood cracking somewhere in the darkness. The constant roar of thunder that swallowed everything else.
Then a tree came down. Its roots tore free with a sound like splitting bone. The earth opened around it. Mud, roots, and stone surged downhill together. The trunk crashed through neighboring branches, snapping them as it fell before disappearing into the storm.
The wound it left behind remained exposed.
Rainwater immediately rushed into it. More soil collapsed. More roots emerged. The mountain continued unraveling. By the time the storm finally moved offshore, entire sections of forest looked unfamiliar.
Sunlight reached this part of thr hillside for the first time in years. Light spilled through it in broad columns, illuminating sections of forest floor that had known only shade. What had once been hidden beneath layers of soil and roots now lay partially exposed. A pale structure crossed through the mud.
Not stone.
Not bone.
Wood. A root, at first glance.
The forest reclaimed everything it could.
But somewhere below, hidden beneath years of moss, fungi, flowers, and storm-tossed earth, they were beginning to arrange themselves around something.
Or someone.
The ground did not open the way it should have.
It softened first. Then grass above the grave leaned inward as if the soil beneath it had finally decided to stop holding itself together. Dirt shifted in small collapses. A slow sinking where something underneath pressed upward without force, only persistence.
The surface broke. A thin split through moss and root.
Then something began to push through it.
Fingers were there only in suggestion, pressed together by damp plant matter that had grown into and around them. Thin roots wrapped through the joints like binding thread. Pale fungus clung in clusters along the skin where skin should have been visible. Small flowers had taken root in the shallow folds of what moved.
A shoulder forced upward through soil that clung and released in uneven resistance. Grass tore free in long strands still rooted in the body. Wet earth slid down in heavy clumps, falling back into the hole in slow, reluctant slides.
The body did not emerge cleanly. It tried to rise. It failed and fell forward instead.
A chest hit the ground with no control behind it, only gravity and unfinished movement. The impact pushed air out in a sharp, broken exhale that immediately caught on something inside its throat.
Breathing did not come easily. Each inhale came with obstacles. Wet leaves, fibrous roots, something that had grown where nothing should have grown. Air did not pass freely. It filtered. It tore.
Speech was not possible. What came out instead was not words. Not even a sound that held intention. Just a low break in the air, a shallow whistle that was swallowed immediately by the forest.
The head turned slightly. Petals shifted in its mouth and fell out in wet clumps onto the soil beside his face. They stuck where they landed. Eyes opened more fully, but not focused.
Light filtered through the skyline above in broken patches, moving slowly as the wind shifted the leaves. It tried to move again, but came delayed.
Tiny insects crawled over its skin without hesitation, passing through the spaces where plant matter had replaced what should have been intact flesh.
Fingers dragged through soil as it tried again to push up. The motion pulled something loose beneath the surface of skin. Fibers, roots, fragments of growth that resisted separation as if they had never intended to be separate in the first place.
The body laid there for a long time. Simply existing in a state where movement was possible but never complete.
When it attempted to rise again, it happened in stages that did not connect. An arm lifted too late, a shoulder dragged forward, a torso collapsed halfway through the effort.
There was no moment where it became upright. Only repeated failure against the same distance. The forest did not help. It simply continued to grow. And for the first time since the grave had been dug, there was no longer anyone, anything, watching from the heavens.
There was only something trying to become alive again.