The story begins on a farm.
It wasn't a vast estate, but it was enough to feed three generations of the Herrera family. In the mornings, the sun would kiss the wheat fields, and the southern wind carried promises of abundant harvests. Don Tomás, the patriarch, often said the earth spoke—you just had to learn how to listen.
But that morning wasn't like the others.
In the distance, voices rose—chants, drums, footsteps. It was the demonstration that had been building for weeks. Farmers from across the valley had organized to protest a new law allowing a foreign corporation to buy land at unfair prices. It was a betrayal of generations of sweat. The march was meant to be peaceful, a dignified stand.
The Herrera family joined in. Tomás with his firm grip on his cane. Lucía, his eldest daughter, holding a flag. And little Mateo, just nine years old, eyes full of hope that his voice could help change the world.
The crowd swelled. Chants rose like an unstoppable river. In front of the local government building, the people gathered. The atmosphere was tense, but hopeful—until they arrived.
Trucks unloaded police officers in bright helmets and dull shields. The line between authority and threat was thin. A shove. A scream. A shattered bottle. The first gunshot. Then, chaos.
People ran. Dust mixed with tear gas. Parents screamed for their children. Brothers dragged the wounded. And in the middle of it all—Mateo.
Lucía had let go of his hand for just one second. Just one.
And when she found him, his small body lay still among the furrows of the land his grandfather had loved so much.
Silence came with the same brutality that hope had vanished. Tomás fell to his knees, the flag in his hands now stained with blood. No one would remember that day for the law or for the speeches. They would remember it for the tragedy that buried the valley in mourning.
From then on, the land no longer spoke.
It only wept.