The story
In the heart of the rural area of Huila, beneath a sky that turned orange at dusk, Rosa's family had gathered at the old country house that had served as a refuge for several generations. Grandma Lucía had passed away several years before, leaving behind the lingering aroma of freshly ground coffee and the creaking of wooden furniture that had seen more harvests than the children themselves.
When they began cleaning the bedroom she had occupied, the oldest son, Andrés, found a small, yellowish piece of paper, folded with precision, hidden among the drawers. It was a handwritten novena, a nine-day prayer, with simple petitions: "restful sleep, abundant food, and tranquility for the home." Each request had a tiny cross in the margin, as though Lucía's own faith had carved her hope into every line. Andrés tucked it away carefully, feeling the weight of family history resting upon his fingertips. The novena was left on the living room mantelpiece, accompanied by a candle that, according to custom, was lit on rainy days.
Years passed, and the house continued to vibrate with the murmur of memories. On a July afternoon, when the sugarcane fields were at their greenest, the family gathered once again to celebrate the birthday of Rosa's nephew. Amidst laughter and plates of arequipe, a thick caramel spread, Rosa's brother-in-law, Carlos, spoke up with an expression that mixed astonishment and doubt.
"You're not going to believe what I saw," he said, while the sunlight streamed through the window and cast long shadows on the adobe floor. "I was out in the patio, near the old oak tree, when Grandma Lucía appeared. It wasn't just a vision; it was as if her body lifted off the ground, just a few centimeters, and did a complete spin, like a little dance of light."
Silence took over the room. Some looked down at the floor, fearful that the tree's shadow was behind the trick. Others, like Aunt Marta, remembered the illness that had consumed Lucía in her final days, an illness that had left her unable to recognize her own identity. The idea that her spirit could manifest in such a subtle way sparked a discussion about the nature of the beings that dwell among the living.
"Spirits are neither good nor bad," intervened Andrés's cousin, Javier, in a slow, calm voice. "They're like the wind: they can bring freshness or a storm, but they don't choose a side."
As the conversation dragged on, the sound of the flickering candle grew more intense, as if the flame were responding to the tension of the moment. The novena, still sitting on the mantelpiece, emitted a faint scent of incense that brought back memories of childhood prayers. In the corner, Lucía's photograph, with her wrinkled smile, seemed to observe the scene with eyes that no longer needed a body to see.
No one mentioned the alleged levitation again, but the intrigue remained anchored in the chest of everyone present. That night, Andrés went back to his mother's room, picked up the novena, and held it under the moonlight filtering through the window. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the paper, and a sense of peace, like the breeze sweeping across the fields at dawn, enveloped him.
The next day, the house went back to its routine, but the memory of that brief, silent dance remained engraved in the family's memory. The novena, now much more than just a piece of paper, became a symbol of faith that transcends matter—proof that, sometimes, the deepest presence reveals itself in a slight levitation, a subtle turn, and the certainty that a family's story never truly ends, but merely transforms into another form of light.
