I found myself in a dark, fragile, and vulnerable space. My new home was a precarious structure of poorly fitted planks, a weak barrier against the whims of the outside world. Cracks adorned the worn walls, while the wind, like a mocking spirit, slipped through with a persistent whistle.
From my limited perspective, I observed the remnants of our possessions: tattered blankets that barely kept us warm and a pair of tin bowls, their shine dulled under layers of rust. The walls, damp and peeling, were the domain of dark, diligent insects, whose march echoed like tiny war drums. Mud dripped from the ceiling at an irregular pace, a constant reminder of our shelter's fragility.
The air, thick and stale, clung to my lungs like an invisible weight. Yet, I had no choice but to adapt. I had learned to accept the incessant chorus of creatures sharing this space with us, a grotesque symphony marking the passage of my days and nights.
When hunger became an unbearable pang, I broke into tears. It was an instinctive cry, my only way to announce my need to the world. As always, the response came quickly: my mother's warm, comforting voice broke the silence.
—Oh, it seems our baby is hungry again.
Her arms, soft as a blanket on a cold night, enveloped me gently, and my crying stopped instantly. Why keep crying, exhausting myself, when I had already gotten what I needed? Crying was tiring, and in my hungry state, it only made me feel weaker.
—Hehe, I think you recognize Mommy —she said with a laugh that brightened the heavy air around us.
How could I not recognize her? Though my body barely responded to my wishes and my world was a chaos of blurry shapes, I had memorized every line and curve of her face. A shy smile spread across my lips when I heard her say "Mommy."
I watched her unbutton her blouse with an almost ritualistic gesture, and when she offered her breast, I accepted it without hesitation. The first few times, a shadow of shame—a remnant of another life—had darkened the act, but now it was the most natural thing in the world. The warm, comforting breast milk slid down my throat with the smoothness of a spring stream, filling me with calm and well-being.
I surrendered to that feeling of fullness. My eyes closed slowly, not from tiredness, but from pure satisfaction.
As days turned into weeks, I noticed my perception of the world sharpening gradually. My mother's voice, once a distant echo, became clear and melodic, like a song being carefully tuned. The blurry shapes took on more defined contours, though they remained a partially deciphered mystery.
My mother, an indefatigable woman, spent her days weaving baskets with rough but skilled hands. Each fiber she wove was a testament to her strength and perseverance. In her spare time, she became a gatherer, a thankless task that barely kept us afloat.
I accompanied her for the first time to the place she called the "shelter." She carried me on her back with an improvised harness, and from there, I observed a grim world. The underground tunnels were a labyrinth of perpetual darkness, lit only by faint lamps flickering like stars on the verge of extinction.
The ground was a barren expanse of pure earth, riddled with potholes and rocks, with no trace of vegetation. Above us, there was no sky, only an unfathomable blackness that seemed to devour any hint of light.
The narrow, winding streets were filled with people dressed in tattered clothes, their faces marked by the relentless cold. The houses, small and fragile, stood as silent witnesses to the daily struggle for survival; their makeshift walls bore the scars of a precarious existence.
—Oh, it seems Adelaida had a great harvest today.
When Mom hurried back to the tunnels, someone with a dirty face greeted her. It was as if the grime had been part of their skin since the day they were born, a permanent mask telling stories of hard work and deprivation.
Most people in the shelter shared that appearance. Their faces, darkened by dust and soot, were silent witnesses to long shifts in the nearby coal mine. There, men, women, and even children worked in exchange for a bit of food, sacrificing their health and dignity to survive another day.
But it wasn't just coal mining that defined their lives. Any dirty or dangerous task fell to those desperate to survive. The underground shelter offered access to aquifers and underground rivers, but the amount of water each person received was strictly rationed. No one dared ask for more, as potable water sources were scarce and, worse, dangerous. Beasts gathered in these places, making them forbidden zones for the district's inhabitants.
That's why dirt was a constant. The residents' faces were as indistinguishable as the shadows surrounding them. Yet, my mother seemed to be the exception. Her skin, though marked by effort, retained a cleanliness and glow that defied the circumstances.
I had never seen her work in the coal mine. She had her own way of surviving, one that didn't require getting as dirty as the others. When someone greeted her, she didn't respond. Her only goal was to return to our cabin as quickly as possible, as if the outside world were an enemy to avoid.
The reality of this underground world was cruel. Few reached adulthood. I saw other children, some younger than me, others barely able to walk, struggling against hunger and disease. Most succumbed to unknown plagues or simple colds that, without medicine, became death sentences.
Pregnant women faced an even bleaker fate. Giving birth in these conditions was like walking on the edge of an abyss, and the survival of both mother and baby was an exceptional miracle. My mother, despite her sweet and harmless appearance, always carried a bone knife while foraging for food. Her eyes, ever vigilant, scanned the shadows for any threat. She was a woman who knew survival required both strength and caution.
Despite everything, she maintained an optimistic attitude. She talked to me constantly, telling me stories, describing the objects she found, and teaching me new words. It was her way of bringing a bit of light to this dark world. I responded as best I could, with babbling and cooing that, though simple, seemed to fill her heart with joy. Each of her smiles was a reward that encouraged me to keep trying to communicate.
Language was a challenge. Without clear references, my progress was slow but steady. I had learned basic words like "milk" and "food," essential for our daily survival. My body was growing, but my ability to speak remained frustratingly limited. No matter how hard I tried, I could only produce basic sounds. The helplessness of not being able to express my thoughts weighed on me like an invisible burden.
One morning, a noise from outside startled me. Instinctively, I sought my mother's face. Her eyes, filled with unconditional love, calmed me. I felt my facial muscles respond with more control than ever, forming a genuine smile.
—You smile every time you see me —she said tenderly—. Do you like me that much? Am I that beautiful?
In my mind, the words flowed clearly: "Yes, you are. I love you so much." But my mouth could only produce a childish melody.
—My little one, are you singing? —she asked, amused.
Her joy at my attempts to communicate made up for the frustration of not being able to speak. I wanted to show her my love in every way possible, even if they were as simple as those inarticulate sounds.
—I know you came from me, but you're too adorable —she continued, bringing her face close to mine—. Who's so adorable? Yes, you.
Instead of kissing my lips or cheeks, she found my little feet peeking out from under the blanket. She kissed them repeatedly, tickling me in a way I couldn't help but enjoy. Then, as expected, she lifted her shirt and hugged me to feed me.
I suckled her breast eagerly, noticing how my senses had sharpened. The taste of the milk, with its subtle hint of coconut, was more distinct than ever. My eyes caught the details of her face better as she fed me, and my ears picked up every small sound around us with greater clarity.
When I was satisfied, my lips kept moving instinctively, though I no longer swallowed. It was a reflex that, according to my mother, would fade with time.
—Sweetheart, grow healthy and strong —Adelaida whispered as she held me—. I love you so much.
Unable to respond with words, I focused all my energy on my gaze, hoping my eyes would convey the message my mouth couldn't: "I love you too, Mom." I thought it with such intensity that I could almost feel the words vibrating in my small body, wishing that, somehow, she would sense the depth of my feelings.