---
People say you shouldn't be out by the river at night.
But what do people know?
I'm Alejandro, 22, university student in Mexico City. A year ago, my abuela passed away and left me her little house in a quiet village called Xochimilco. It was beautiful—right on the water, with colorful boats floating by during the day and a hush that fell like velvet at night.
Abuela used to warn me as a kid: "No vayas al río después de la medianoche. Ella te llevará."
(Don't go to the river after midnight. She will take you.)
I always laughed.
Until I heard her cry.
It was a Wednesday. I'd fallen asleep on the couch with the window open. Somewhere between dreaming and waking, I heard it—a long, haunting wail floating across the water.
"Ay… mis hijos…"
(Oh… my children…)
I sat up, heart slamming. Was someone playing a prank?
I went outside.
The river glistened silver under the moonlight, completely still. The air smelled like wet stone and old flowers.
Then I saw her.
A woman in white, walking just above the surface. Her hair was long, tangled. Her dress looked soaked in centuries of grief. She didn't have a face—just shadows where her eyes should be.
"Ay… mis hijos…" she cried again, clutching her chest, voice cracked and broken.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't run.
She turned to me.
And suddenly she was right in front of me—not walking anymore, flying across the water, arms outstretched, her scream growing louder, sharper, until it pierced straight into my bones.
I blacked out.
When I woke, I was lying on the dock with the morning sun on my face. My phone was gone. My feet were wet.
I went back into the house, shaking. On the mirror in the hallway, scrawled in dripping water, were the words:
"Tú no eres mi hijo."
(You are not my child.)
---
Every night since, I've heard her sobbing.
And I lock the doors.
But deep down… I know she'll come back.
---