In the silent hours of dawn—when I was already preparing to face another day of routine—it seems almost unreal to recall that, at the tender age of ten, I once trod the dusty paths of San Pedro.
In the silent hours of dawn—as I prepare to face yet another day of routine—it’s hard to believe that at ten years old I once walked the dusty paths of San Pedro. Every day unfolds with a steady cadence: I wake to the distant sound of my alarm, brew my coffee, and pack my things with the precision that habit provides. As I make my way to work—whether on the bus or crossing the city—my favorite tunes accompany me, a soundtrack that softens the day’s monotony. At the office, amid piles of papers and flickering screens, I carry out my tasks, part of a cycle that keeps me moving day after day. At noon, I savor a simple, almost ritualistic meal, and the afternoon fades away in a blur of meetings and phone calls. Finally, I return home to unwind: I read for a while or listen to music, and when weariness overcomes me, I surrender to sleep, preparing to repeat it all again the next day.
One afternoon, while I was lounging on the sofa, the quiet of the house was broken by the ringing phone. At first, the voice on the other end sounded unfamiliar, but gradually I began to recognize it—it was one of those childhood friends, whose voice still carried the warmth of nearly forgotten days. Amid cheerful greetings and nostalgic exchanges—”How have you been? What are you up to? It’s been so long!”—he explained the reason for his call. He wanted to invite me to be the godfather at his son’s first communion, as the town festival was approaching and he couldn’t think of anyone better for the honor. Although a flicker of nervousness and hesitation passed through me, I quickly replied, “Count me in.”
The next day, as I resumed my routine and boarded the bus, I heard an elderly lady bidding everyone farewell with a firm, familiar, “God bless you all!” That phrase struck me powerfully, awakening a long-dormant memory and transporting my mind back to a time when life was different—a time of innocence and wonder…
I was that little Tomás, with hair as dark as the ink I now use to write these words, then a fifth-grader whose hunger for learning was unquenchable. I roamed the winding trails of the forest, seeking out stones that seemed utterly unique and discovering hidden creeks among the undergrowth. The night would drape its starry cloak over me, and in every twinkle of the celestial lights I found promises and legends—tales recounted by elders that sparked within me a fierce curiosity. It’s hard to believe that someday I too would have a story worth telling.
My days were filled with play and adventure. My friends and I were like little explorers in a world that appeared to stretch endlessly before us. We ran barefoot through the grass, climbed trees as high as we dared, and devised ingenious ways to divert the torrent of water cascading from the hills during the rains. I still remember the thrill of finding a multicolored stone or a snail tucked away in the shadow of an old oak. Often, I would lose myself in the depths of the forest, following the gentle murmur of a stream as it whispered among the pines, or lie in the cool grass gazing at the sky, where I imagined entire stories written in the constellations. I was a child brimming with questions, my eyes alive and my mind ever hungry for wonder.
Our home was modest—a small adobe house with sun-worn tiles, weathered by the harsh winter sun and the pounding summer rains. Every morning, my father rose before dawn and set off for the fields, where the warm, fertile earth seemed to speak to him. With a wisdom born of experience, he knew exactly how to tend to it. His departure was always marked by a heartfelt “God bless you,” a blessing that drifted into the fresh morning air. Meanwhile, my mother, with her gentle voice and serene grace, prepared breakfast in a kitchen filled with well-worn pots, cups, and plates, centered around a humble hearth. The air was always alive with the scent of fresh tortillas and pot coffee—or perhaps atole, chamomile, cinnamon, or nurite tea. As she kneaded the dough or stirred the pot, she would murmur prayers or softly sing praises, as if sealing our little home against the world’s misfortunes. In those simple, everyday mornings, I sensed that faith was as natural and essential as breathing—even as a subtle, inexplicable shadow began to stir within me, hinting that the sacred harbored secrets far deeper than I could imagine.
School, a modest building with whitewashed walls and corrugated tin roofs, was a place where learning and laughter intertwined. The wooden desks creaked in time with the lessons, and our teacher—with his measured tone and wistful gaze—spoke passionately about doctrine and literature. In that small universe of childhood, my friends became partners in mischief and adventure. Miguel, with his infectious laughter, could always turn a break into an exciting game; Esteban, ever sharp and alert, would spin tales of ghosts and miracles; and sometimes, amidst our laughter and teasing, we’d drift into conversations tinged with the mysterious. I remember one afternoon, as we lounged beneath an ancient mesquite tree in the schoolyard, when Miguel joked:
“Don’t you think the church has eyes? Like its windows are little pupils that see everything,”
accompanied by a grand, sweeping gesture mimicking wide, expectant eyelids.
Forcing a smile and striving to hide my unease, I replied, “Don’t be silly, Miguel. Those windows are missing more than a few panes—they wouldn’t see a thing.”
Even as my words sounded like mere excuses, deep inside a quiet voice whispered that perhaps someone else had felt exactly as I did.
At dawn, our town transformed into a gentle celebration of soft light and long shadows. The smoke rising from the ovens of local bakeries, the clatter of bicycles as people commuted, and the chorus of hundreds of birds filled the air. The adobe houses with their cracked tiles huddled together in a hushed stillness, as if reluctant to wake. The sun, still timid behind the horizon, bathed the dusty streets in a golden glow that promised a day of quiet goodness, while the crowing of roosters marked the beginning of yet another day.
Our town’s patron saint was Saint Peter, and every year during the patronal festival, the first communions of the children were celebrated. With the innocence and pride of a ten-year-old, I was convinced that next year it would be my turn to receive that sacred rite. The festivities transformed the streets with a riot of colors and aromas: improvised altars were erected, banners fluttered from every corner, and voices blended in jubilant chants of devotion, all underscored by the lively music of bands and orchestras brought in for neighbors’ celebrations or processions. Yet, amid all the clamor and faith, I sometimes sensed a disquieting duality: the louder the celebration, the more fervently I prayed, as though the people struggled to feel true peace beneath all that noise.
Attending catechism wasn’t merely a duty—it was, at first, a sanctuary. In that warm space of camaraderie, our small voices united in recitations and prayers. Come December, we joyfully sang carols and eagerly awaited posadas, our pockets filled with treats and our hearts alight with anticipation. During Holy Week, we helped prepare for the Palm Sunday fair or served as altar boys, hoping for a kind word—or even a small tip—from our godparents or the bride and groom. But outside those festive moments, the endless repetition of the Creed and our daily prayers began to feel like a burden. Every mistake was met with the stern reproach of Doña María, our catechist, whose expression in the classroom was unyieldingly severe—so different from the warm, smiling woman who later sat chatting with my mother in the kitchen.
I vividly recall one late afternoon, when the sun, drenched in an orange twilight, slipped behind the fields. I had forgotten part of the litany, and the mocking looks from my classmates, coupled with Doña María’s silent disapproval, left me feeling small and exposed. I was made to remain in the church until I could recite the prayers with the precision of a priest.
The church itself was a humble yet imposing structure—built of stone, wood, and tiles—with stained glass windows that, in the light of day, seemed to recount the stories of saints and miracles, but at night revealed only layers of dust. After what felt like an eternity, Doña María returned to the small catechism room to inform me that I could go home—provided I studied harder, for besides that one prayer, there were several more I still needed to memorize. With little more protest than a resigned “Yes, Doña María, good night,” I left the room. As I passed the altar, the echo of my footsteps blended with the murmur of prayers and the lingering scent of incense. Walking down the central aisle, an unsettling feeling crept over me, as though the sacred images themselves were watching. The Sorrowful Virgin, hung in a shadowed corner, seemed to tilt her face in an eternal expression of sorrow; the Christ, with a brow etched in suffering, stared at me with an intensity that felt almost inhuman; and in every recess, figures of saints and angels appeared to murmur in secret.
With my heart pounding and a growing sense of dread in my chest, I hurriedly left the church, sprinting along the cobbled streets as those haunting images and whispers crowded my mind. Once home, even the comforting aroma of pot coffee and the soft murmur of my mother in the kitchen could not dispel the unsettling feeling that something inside me had irreversibly changed.
That very night, as the family gathered for dinner and my parents’ voices blended into the shadows of the dining room, I slipped away to my room. Under the guise of reviewing my catechism, I locked myself in that modest space, illuminated only by the dim glow of a yellowish lamp, while shadows danced on the window in time with the chirping of crickets. The catechism book lay open on a page I had already memorized, its words murmuring distantly as if alive. Overwhelmed by fatigue, I soon succumbed to sleep, unwittingly opening the door to a nightmare that still sends shivers down my spine.
In that dream, the stillness of night was shattered by murmurs I couldn’t quite decipher—low voices emerging from every dark corner of my room, as if the abyss itself were speaking. The atmosphere grew thick and oppressive, as though darkness had condensed into a heavy shroud, settling over me. Slowly, from the inky blackness, emerged the very figures that had unsettled me in the church: first, the Sorrowful Virgin appeared, suspended in an almost unreal air, her pale face etched with a suffering that seemed beyond human, her dark eyes brimming with centuries of sorrow as they turned toward me.
Beside her, the figure of Christ materialized—his brow furrowed in an expression of relentless pain, with blood trickling from the crown of thorns, as he bore his cross with a desolation that felt almost damning, as if every furrow on his face was a mark of my own guilt. Not long after, Saint Peter emerged, his severe expression and unyielding gaze as though ready to pass judgment sent a chill through me. But it was Saint Michael the Archangel who, clad in dark, gleaming armor and wielding a sword wreathed in flames, filled me with an indescribable terror. His eyes, vacant and piercing, seemed to scrutinize every corner of my soul with a cold, relentless intensity.
They advanced in slow, almost ceremonial steps that reverberated through the darkness like the beating of a great heart. The murmurs swelled into an unsettling crescendo until the very air became thick and nearly suffocating, charged with an imminent, unyielding judgment. Trapped in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness, I tried to scream, to plead for help, but my words were swallowed by the silence. In a final, desperate act, I began to recite the Creed; each word emerged with a mix of sheer panic and a wavering faith that, for an instant, seemed to force the figures to recoil. Then, the feeble flame of my lone candle—my only ally in that oppressive darkness—flickered violently and died, plunging me into an abyss of absolute blackness.
When I awoke, the faint light of dawn crept timidly through the window, yet I lay drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. The memory of those immutable faces and sinister whispers was etched into my soul like an indelible scar.
The following days passed in an air of apparent normalcy. I attended classes, played with my friends in the fields, and helped around the house—but with every prayer, every toll of the church bells, and every furtive glance, the shadow of that nightmare lingered. Whenever I passed by the church, with its vibrant stained glass and modest altar, the images of the Virgin and Christ would resurface in my mind, recalling that moment when the divine became menacing.
One late afternoon in the schoolyard, as the sun dipped low and laughter mingled with the whisper of the wind, Esteban approached me and asked quietly,
“Have you ever wondered why the church is kept so silent?”
I looked out at the horizon, where the sky melted into hues of orange and violet, and in a near-whisper I replied,
“I feel it’s so they can hear everything…”
Those soft words, so casual to my companions, masked within me a deep-seated fear—an intuition that every prayer carried with it an inevitable judgment.
Over time, I came to understand that the rhythms of our town—the automatic prayers, the patronal festivities honoring Saint Peter, the constant ebb and flow of the marketplace—served as a comforting distraction from the terror I had once experienced. The long afternoons spent within the church, the rigid discipline of catechism, and that unforgettable night when shadows seemed to come alive had left an indelible mark on my soul, convincing me that the divine and the terrifying are not opposites but two sides of the same coin.
Now, when I reflect on my childhood amid the soft toll of church bells and the echo of whispered prayers, I realize that with every step and every breath, faith has always been intertwined with fear. My journey—from those days spent hunting for stones in the forest to the threshold of my impending first communion—was paved with secrets and a restless yearning that, over time, became the very essence of who I am.
And so, beneath the flickering glow of a solitary candle and the eternal murmur of prayers, my story unfolds as a tale of innocence and sleepless nights, of faith and terror—a tale that even now reminds me that the true essence of life lies not only in recited words but in the relentless questioning of what remains hidden behind a veil of silence.
