Years passed quietly in the sierra. Hijuelo grew alongside Raicilla, feeling his heart awaken for the first time. He watched her become strong, fierce, clear-eyed—and felt something unfamiliar stir within him. It felt like home. But he had learned too well what love meant: rejection, risk, loss.

One evening, watching Raicilla tend the ferment, Hijuelo spoke quietly:

“What makes your spirit different?”

Raicilla paused, then replied simply, “It refuses to be anything but itself.”

“I wish I could say the same,” he admitted.

She looked straight into him. “Then let go of your old name.”

“Mezcal?” asked Hijuelo, Raicilla noded.

Love bloomed slowly, cautiously, a secret carried gently between glances and subtle touches. But whispers soon became too loud, tension built beneath every quiet smile. One cold morning, Ocote stood rigidly before him, eyes dark with concern:

“You risk everything. Verde’s fury won't spare anyone who shelters you.”

The weight of Ocote’s words pressed heavy. Hijuelo tried to find his voice, uncertain but defiant: “She’s the only truth I've ever known. How can you deny me that?”

Raíz stepped forward, her tone firm, sorrow hidden beneath resolve. “You must go. We won't trade our safety for your happiness.”

Raicilla stood apart, silent, her eyes bright with unspoken emotion. Later, when night cloaked their farewells, she approached him, holding a small clay jug tightly:

“This is all I am. Keep it close—take me with you wherever you go.”

Hijuelo took the jug, fingers trembling. He looked deep into her eyes, searching for something to say, some assurance to give. But inside he had already surrendered to a harsher truth—he would never risk love again.

He walked north along Nayarit’s coast, hearing whispers about Raicilla’s spirit spreading—pure, defiant, loved. Pride briefly flickered inside him. He had been part of something true, something that endured even without him.

Sonora did not greet him—it stripped him. The wind bit without warning. The sun punished without pause. There were no trees, no shade, just dust and thorn and sky. Each step sank him deeper into himself. Each night, colder than the last, revealed a truth he couldn’t explain.

He was not running anymore. He wasn’t searching. He was unraveling.

The desert had no path, only silence. He stopped speaking. He stopped thinking. Hunger became rhythm. Thirst became prayer. His body shrank inward. His mind blurred. He forgot names. His own voice sounded foreign.

One morning, the heat bent light into liquid. He saw Raicilla in the distance, laughing, barefoot, holding the jug. He ran toward her. She vanished. Another morning: Verde, standing in judgment, mouth shut, eyes burning. Then nothing.

He fell, face to the ground. The sky pulsed. Time cracked.

“I am a mistake,” he whispered. “My life is a mistake.”

The wind did not answer. He gave in to a certain death.

When he opened his eyes, not knowing if he was still alive, he felt the night. Firelight flickered across faces painted in red and ash. Yaqui elders surrounded him. One knelt beside him, holding a gourd to his lips. Smoke, sweat, and a bitter fruit they called medicine.

A voice, dry and low: “You weren’t meant to die here.”

Hijuelo blinked.

“The desert didn’t kill you because it had a question: will you remain broken, or will you return as someone else?”

The elder leaned in.

“There is a prophecy. You were made for greatness. It's time to face who you truly are.”

The flames danced in his eyes. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But something inside him didn’t feel thirsty anymore.

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