Inheritance of Shadows

XIX

Javier looked at Helena and offered her a tender smile. "I know your place is beside your husband now, as you begin this new family together. But know this, mija—our doors will forever be open to you, no matter the distance or time."

Then he turned to Damian. "And you, son... I know it's hard. Believe me, I do. But I hope you'll join us. It would do you good to get a whiff of fresh air—new air. It doesn't erase the past, but it might help you breathe again."

A flicker of worry crossed Javier's face as he studied Damian. But Damian only nodded, silently, a storm behind his eyes.

Javier raised his glass. "To all of you here tonight—thank you. For your love. For your patience. For not letting me fall completely apart. This isn't a final goodbye. Just a see-you-later."

The impromptu party stretched into the night, laughter and music echoing into the hills of Topilejo. Family friends arrived with bottles of mezcal, with guitars, with old memories in tow. They sang songs from years past, told stories of youthful mischief. One uncle brought up Javier's long ride to Chalma on horseback as a teenager. Another chuckled over the nights when Javier would escape through the hills just to see the girls he courted. Javier, red-faced, shook his head while Alicia gave him a teasing nudge and a playful laugh.

Damian smiled faintly but stayed quiet, soaking it all in.

That night, long after the guests had gone and silence wrapped the house in hush, Damian lay awake. The ceiling above him blurred with thoughts and memories. He wasn't ready. But he knew his father was right—this hate, this sorrow had ruled his life too long. It had hardened his heart. Poisoned the joy from his veins.

He needed out. Not to forget—never that—but to find a new way to carry it.

In the hush of pre-dawn, he saddled his yellow dun, the one with black legs, a dark snout and mane. It looked almost like the wild mustang from his childhood dreams. The saddle creaked softly, bearing the initials of his great-grandfather burned into the leather. He slung a rifle over his shoulder—old habit, he thought, coyotes still roamed the hills—and mounted up.

He took the long way. The scenic path. Down through El Pedregal, where cobblestones still clung to the bones of the village. Past the barranca, over the narrow bridge, and up the winding path lined with pine and ocote. Every bend held a memory. Every tree whispered a story.

Eventually, he came to the hill. The last hill. From there, the land stretched out beneath the early stars. It was fenced off now, sold, claimed, altered. But it was still his, in some invisible way. The soil had once known the footsteps of his ancestors. The wind still smelled of his grandmother's garden.

Damian sat quietly on his horse. The silence of dawn wrapped around him. Then the tears came.

"I failed you, Grandma," he whispered, his voice cracking, his hands trembling.

He wept like a child and like a man, letting the grief run loose for the first time in years. When the sun broke over the hills, he turned back, saddle soaked in dew, but his heart lighter.

The days that followed were chaos. The move took weeks. They had to adjust the new house—old plumbing, stubborn walls, paint that never quite dried right. The land around it had promise though. Enough space for the horses. A stable they rebuilt together, plank by plank. The old dun adjusted quickly, and so did the others. Topilejo was behind them now. But the scent of the pines and the cold mountain mornings made the transition easier.

One evening, after the last box was unpacked and the sun had dipped low, Javier and Damian sat on the porch, boots up on the wooden rail. The scent of grilled meat still lingered in the air.

They drank quietly, words sparse but meaningful.

Damian turned to his father.

"I want to be a rancher, Dad. I don't care about being rich. I don't want power like Lucia. I just want land, my cattle, the smell of rain in the soil. I want peace. The land speaks to me, Father. And I want to answer it."

Javier looked at his son, eyes shimmering with emotion. "You speak like a man twice your age, Damian. I believe in you. I just pray you don't only reach your dream—but that you learn how to keep it."

Then, after a pause, he added with a half-smile, "But I still want grandkids too."

Damian laughed, the sound deep and clear, echoing out over their new home.

And so it ended, not with a grand victory, but with quiet resilience. The kind that builds over time like roots digging deep into stubborn earth.

Topilejo had been left behind, but not forgotten. A chapter closed. Another opened.

The wind carried the promise of stories yet to be written. And somewhere in the distance, where the pine trees met the sky, a young man with dust on his boots and hope in his heart began to walk his own trail.