For centuries, I have flowed through this land, carving valleys and nurturing life. I have seen empires rise and crumble, heard the songs of children playing along my banks, and felt the weight of countless tears mingling with my waters. But none have wept more than her.

La Llorona.

She came to me first under a blood-red moon, her cries piercing the stillness of the night. Her sorrow spilled into me, a torrent of anguish so profound that even my rushing waters faltered. At first, I did not understand her pain, but as the years flowed on, her story seeped into me like ink spreading through cloth.

She had drowned her children in my embrace—a moment of madness, a cruel twist of fate—and now wandered my banks, calling for them, her voice like a ghostly wind rippling my surface.

For centuries, she has haunted me. I tried to soothe her in my way, offering the soft murmur of my current, the cool caress of my waters. Yet her grief was unrelenting, her wails echoing through the night, scaring away life that once thrived near me. I became known as cursed, a place where no light dared linger.

I grew weary. Not of her presence—no, she had become as much a part of me as the fish in my depths or the stones lining my bed—but of her suffering. I had carried her sorrow long enough.

One night, under the light of a pale crescent moon, I decided to act.

Her shadow appeared on my banks, thin and hunched, her veil trailing behind her like mist. “Mis hijos,” she wept, her voice broken. “Where are my children?”

Her pain rippled through me, but this time, I answered. My waters rose, gentle but insistent, lapping at her feet.

“You have mourned long enough,” I said, my voice the whisper of reeds in the wind.

She froze, her hollow eyes searching the darkness. “Who speaks?”

“I do,” I replied, my current swelling slightly. “I have carried your sorrow for centuries. It is time to let go.”

“I cannot,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “They are lost. Because of me.”

“You cannot bring them back,” I said, my tone soft but firm. “But you can find peace. Look within my depths.”

Hesitant, she stepped into me. My waters rose around her, cradling her as a mother would her child. I let her see what I had always held for her—the reflection of her children, not as victims of tragedy but as radiant souls, free and unburdened, playing in eternal light.

“They are not lost,” I told her. “They are beyond your reach but not beyond your love.”

Her sobs softened, her form flickering as if a great weight was lifting from her. She gazed at the vision, tears streaming down her face, but this time they were not of despair.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The veil that bound her to this world began to dissolve, her figure shimmering like morning mist. As she faded, her voice echoed through me, not as a wail but as a song, tender and bittersweet.

And then, she was gone.

The night grew still, and for the first time in centuries, my waters felt light. The air around me warmed, and life returned to my banks in the days that followed—birds nesting in the trees, children daring to skip stones across my surface.

Her cries no longer haunt me. But sometimes, when the wind is just right, I carry her song through the valleys, a reminder that even the deepest grief can find release, and even the loneliest soul can find peace.