This all started years ago, at the bedside of Tía Inez, when the power of la cuentista was granted to me. It had frightened me, but I believed what I was told: that I would be the most important person of Empalme, that I had been given a purpose that would last until the end of my life.
It had also trapped me. Contained me. It made me feel as I would forever remain in that place, that the world beyond our gates would forever be a mystery to me.
No hay paredes
para detenerme
There are no walls
to stop me
But I had left. I had ventured out into the desert, out into the unknown, and what had I learned?
That the truths that I had been told were stories.
It was ironic, wasn’t it, Solís? I was not even aware that the rigid rules of my life were stories, passed on from generation to generation because that’s all we knew. Tía Inez believed it, and la cuentista before her did, too. And so, we gave every cuentista of Empalme the same rules, the same restrictions, and we held them down, and we forced them into a life they couldn’t possibly have chosen.
The idea came to me while staring at Emilia, watching her contemplate her new existence, her life without Solado.
I had to go back home.
And I had to break the cycle.
I got up and crossed the room to the bed, and I sat next to Emilia, took her hand. She gripped it tight, and then I told her everything.
All the stories I took.
All the lies I had told.
The truth—part of it, as much as I could allow myself to face.
“They’re consuming me,” I said, and a lightness settled over me. It was not everything, but it was enough for relief to flow. “These stories … they were never meant to be kept this long. I can still feel them. They’re alive.”
“So … give them up,” she said. “Do you need them anymore?”
“I need to go back. To Empalme.”
She frowned. “Do you have to?”
“I need to be somewhere familiar,” I explained. “Have you ever seen the ritual?”
She shook her head.
“It’s intense. Exhausting. Kind of … violent.”
I told her why. I told her of the bitterness that poured out of my mouth, of the way the earth drank it up. I told her of forgetting, of the disorientation, of the lingering sensations that remained.
“Sometimes, I can sleep for ten hours after a story, and even then, I can feel lost. It takes so much out of me.”
“I’m sure I can find some food or water,” she said. “Or I could—”
“No, you don’t get it, Em,” I said, and I brought her hand to my stomach and I let her feel it, let her touch the roiling stories as they fought within me.
She jerked her hand away. “Is that them?”
I nodded. “I don’t know what will happen when I give up all these stories. I’ve never had more than one at a time.”
Omar.
Ofelia.
Lani.
Lázaro.
Lito.
Marisol.
Emilia.
Soledad.
Eliazar.
Eduardo.
Their stories lived on within me.
And they were changing me.
Who was I but a collection of their emotions and experiences? They were eating me, desperate for company, and how much longer could I stand that?
And would my suspicion come true?
“Can you last three more days, though?” she asked. “It’s a long journey back to Empalme.”
We both heard the thudding near the entrance, and they slunk into the space, their black fur blending in with the shadows. I had not seen the guardian since they had brought us here, but the others loomed outside.
Waiting.
We can help, Amato said. We brought you here. It is only fair that we take you back.
“But how?” I asked.
Do you wish to return to Empalme, cuentista?
After all this time, could I go back?
You will return, yes?
“They have to know what I know,” I said.
I rose from the bed and I extended my hand out to Emilia.
Unsure if she would take it.
Unsure if this was the right choice.
But I wanted it.
“Will you come with me?”
She didn’t hesitate.
She took my hand.
“Let’s go back,” she said.
Emilia lingered in the entryway of her home. Was she trying to remember it all? To commit it to her mind?
Because it was not lost on me that I was now going to return home, but Emilia had no reason to come back to Solado ever again.
She said nothing. There was so much unspoken grief in her, over her lost home, her lost people.
So we left that dark and terrible place.
I still kept the truth from her, Solís. I wasn’t ready to tell her everything. Did that make me a bad person? Or can you understand why I did what I did?
It took me a long time to figure it out, though. As we came out of the darkness, the stars around us, you were gone for the night. We were alone, comforted by the glowing estrellas, and I thought of the nightly ritual in Empalme.
We saw no such thing in Obregán or in La Reina Nueva.
And it was because they didn’t need it.
You did not punish them because … well, you didn’t punish anyone anymore.
It all made so much sense to me.
You burned the world.
You gave las cuentistas and the guardians our powers.
And then … you left. We were all alone down here. What we did with that power … well, that was up to us.
I used it to cleanse Empalme.
Julio used it to mimic what los pálidos had done.
Soledad used it for her own purposes.
The guardians believed they were honoring you.
My people, the people of Empalme, believed en las pesadillas so fiercely that they made them real.
Eliazar’s people did not.
Téa helped their community as best as they could.
And Ximen chose something else.
Now it was time for me to do the same.
I could be exactly the kind of cuentista I wanted to be. I could follow my own rules. And I did not have to worry about you.
Because clearly, you were not worried about us.
Knowing that I was returning home, knowing that this journey had a new purpose, it
