People wept for the loss of that girl, the one who had the noblest heart and a smile so warm that it made even the coldest heart beat. The bridge over which her carriage had passed was closed, and a tomb was placed in the spot where she was found.

But the event was not forgotten; over time, rumors began to arise of neighbors who had seen something white walking along the riverbanks, brides began to go the night before their weddings to pray so as not to suffer the same fate, and parents forbade their children from playing near that place.

That is how everything came to be marked as a terrible accident, although, in a low voice, some knew the truth: the bride did not fall, the bride jumped.

That fateful night, the cold was not ordinary, it burned in the lungs when breathing it, while the wind blew stronger and the clouds finished covering the sky, erasing any trace of the peaceful day it had been hours before; for the young woman who was standing on the riverbank, that day had never been happy.

The air tangled her hair, adorned with a flower headband, and the edge of her white dress began to soak with the water, sticking to her skin without her paying attention. Her gaze was fixed on the reflection that violently broke in the current.

That girl, the one who was the platonic love of most of the young men for her charisma and bright smile, felt anything but happy.

Her father had promised her months before. Months in which she begged, pleaded, implored him to cancel the wedding, but he refused. He had promised her to the son of an old friend, a man with wealth and a surname, of whom it was even said that he had a distant connection to the viceroy.

Her mother tried to console her with words that brought no relief, telling her that she had also learned to love over time, but she knew that would not be possible.

Because her heart loved another.

A young man who had been working on her family's estate, whom she watched in silence from the window, getting up before dawn to see him leave and waiting at sunset to see him return.

For months it was just that, glances at a distance and a curiosity that grew in silence, until one afternoon fate intervened. While she was riding, the wind startled her horse and she was about to fall, if it weren't for him appearing just in time to hold her by the waist and calm the animal.

His arms were firm, marked by work, his skin was tanned by the sun, and his eyes looked at her with an intensity that made her forget everything for a moment. When he helped her dismount and returned the shawl that had fallen, he smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat that she could no longer ignore. Then came the secret meetings, the looks that spoke louder than words, the accidental brush of fingers and the stolen kisses in the stable. Even her father was glad to see her interested in the countryside, unaware that it was not the land she was going to observe.

When they told her of her engagement, she went to him and wept in his arms, confessing that she loved him, that her life belonged to him, that she loved no one else. The young man proposed that they run away, flee together to the capital, and start over where no one could find them, and she accepted, giving herself to that promise with everything she had, including her body as a pledge that needed no words.

But she didn’t know she wouldn’t get far. That night she waited for her parents to fall asleep, packed a small suitcase, and hid some jewelry in her shawl, just as he had instructed her. She saw his silhouette from the window—the agreed-upon signal—but when she tried to open it, she found it locked. She pulled, pushed, tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

Then she heard the dogs, saw him running, the horses chasing him, the opportunity slipping through her fingers as she stood helpless. She tried to get out the door, but it was locked too. She pounded on it, begged, cried, until she heard the gunshots. She fell to her knees, and in that instant she knew they had caught him.

When her father entered her room, he struck her for the first time in her life. He insulted her, humiliated her, told her to be grateful that her fiancé didn’t know the truth—otherwise he would have called off the engagement—and that he wouldn’t throw her out of the house like some common woman. But with her cheek burning and her eyes filled with tears, all she could think was that she would never marry that man, no matter the cost.

Now she was there, on the riverbank. The cold water lapping at her feet seeped into her bones as she recalled her life as if it were already coming to an end. Perhaps this was what it was like before dying. Perhaps this was what the last moment of clarity felt like. Then she heard the sound of horses’ hooves approaching and her fiancé’s voice calling her—not as a plea, but as a command. She turned to look at him and met his gaze, which was cold and annoyed.

He shouted at her to back away.

But she didn’t listen; clenching her fists and lifting her face, she took a deep breath of cold air and decided to jump, not caring about anything.

She felt the cold water hit her as she fell; she opened her mouth, water flooding into her lungs. Her unconscious body tried to break the surface, but the weight of her dress and the force of the river pulled her back down.

She thought of him. Of the man she loved. Of his hands, of the way he laughed, of the promise they could never fulfill. He was dead, and with him, her happiness.

She no longer felt the cold; her skin had gone completely numb. Her lungs burned, swelling with unbearable pressure, and each attempt to resist was weaker than the last. With her last ounce of strength, she raised her hand, barely, as if trying to pull it out of the water, as if a part of her still refused to die. A fear struck her—silent, suffocating—mixed with an absurd hope that it was all just a bad dream. But even so, she preferred that to the life that awaited her.

She closed her eyes.

And she let herself go.

Then she felt it.

A tug.

It wasn’t the current or the river’s movement. It was a hand. Firm and warm. Even in that icy water, the touch burned as it held her with such force. She didn’t have time to think; she just felt her body being pulled upward, the weight disappearing, the world shifting.

The sensation of the grass hit her all at once.

She fell onto her hands and knees; the impact knocked the air out of her—the air she no longer had—bringing her back to a reality that hurt more than the water. She coughed. The water rushed violently from her lungs, burning her throat, tearing at her chest, forcing her to hunch over as her body struggled to remember how to breathe. She coughed again and again, until the air returned, clumsy, irregular, and yet every breath burned, the cold piercing her insides now that she could feel again.

She opened her eyes.

The sky she remembered as golden before she jumped was now gray, heavy, split by lightning that illuminated the world in brief, violent flashes. The rain pelted her face, her eyelids, her skin, but she could barely focus until she saw it.

A shadow leaning over her.

A charro.

He wasn’t just any charro; she knew it instantly. The black suit seemed to absorb the light, elegantly tailored, impeccable despite the storm, with subtle details. The wide-brimmed hat hid part of his face. In the shadow, one could make out defined features, almost too perfect, as if they didn’t quite belong to a living man. His skin was pale, showing no sign of the cold, and his dark hair fell in messy strands down the sides of his face, damp but still holding its shape. A red bandana rested around his neck, contrasting with the darkness of his attire, like a splash of life amidst something that wasn’t.

And his eyes.

Dark and deep.

They had a gaze that saw beyond the physical, as if they had seen the world’s evil in person, or he was that evil.

She felt a chill that didn’t come from the cold.

Her grandmother had told her about him. About the stories whispered at night, of men and women who, out of ambition or desperation, called upon him. She said he granted wishes, that he gave everything one asked for but always took his toll. And that what he asked for was never something you could get back. She also said that those who tried to escape him failed, because there was no corner of the world where he couldn’t find you.

In front of her.

The Black Charro.

“A bride should be at the altar, getting married,” he said, in a deep, resonant voice, as if it were coming from far below, from a place where the earth and the dead merge. “Not in a coffin.”

A bolt of lightning struck nearby, illuminating her face completely for a second. It was enough to confirm that she wasn’t human—or at least, not entirely.

She propped herself up slightly on her elbows. The wet grass stained her white dress; the lace clung to her skin, ruined, but she didn’t care.

“It’s no different,” she replied, her voice breaking. “Either way, I’d be dead.”

The Charro tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing her words more than necessary. The rain slid down the brim of his hat, avoiding her face, as if even the storm respected her space.

“Oh, woman…” he murmured, and there was a low, dangerous amusement in his tone. “You really are crazy.”

She held his gaze. His eyes, which had once been full of life, now carried something heavier, something that wouldn’t be washed away by tears. They had always told her that if she encountered him, she should pray, drive him from her home with firmness. That his voice was sweet as honey and his words enveloping, that he ensnared the weak.

But she wasn’t weak anymore.

Or maybe she didn’t care if she was.

After deciding to die, fear had become useless.

“Are you going to take my soul?” she asked, with a calmness even she didn’t understand.

El Charro knelt down in front of her, and in that instant something changed. The rain was still falling, but the sound seemed distant, as if they were no longer in the same place as the rest of the world, as if there were a space just for the two of them.

“I’m tempted,” he admitted, and a slow smile spread across his lips—one that wasn’t cruel, but wasn’t kind either. “The beautiful souls are the ones you enjoy the most. But I can’t take a soul if the other person doesn’t agree.”

He paused, watching her closely.

“Those are the rules.”

She looked him in the eyes, but her gaze wasn’t fully on him; it was lost in thoughts that wouldn’t quite fall into place. She knew who he was. She knew what it meant to stand before someone like him, what her grandmother had warned her so many times in a low voice, as if even naming him might attract him. She knew of the danger, of the deals, of the consequences that could not be undone once accepted.

But she also knew she had nothing left.

Her family had turned their backs on her, her life no longer belonged to her, and the future that awaited her had been decided for her without ever asking if she wanted it. She had run toward the river looking for a way out—the easiest one, perhaps the most cowardly.

And now she was there.

Facing something worse.

“What if I accepted?”

El Charro didn’t respond right away. He held her gaze for a long moment, as if, instead of listening to her words, he were pondering something deeper—something she herself didn’t quite understand. The rain kept falling, soaking her dress and hair; the water ran down her skin. But it didn’t seem to affect him; his clothes remained dry, untouched, as if the storm weren’t allowed to reach him. Finally, he stood up calmly, without taking his eyes off her entirely.

“No one here accepts anything without knowing what they’re asking for,” he said in that deep, firm voice. “But if you want to ask for something, I can listen to you. That’s what I do. Deals are my trade.”

She slowly lowered her gaze. Her hands rested on the damp grass; the weight of the water on her clothes, the cold that had once burned her bones—it all began to blur, and in the midst of that void that was starting to open up inside her, she thought of him. His laughter, the way he looked at her when no one else was around, that last image of him leaning against the window, smiling without knowing that moment would be etched in her memory forever.

“There was a man,” she said in a low voice, almost breathless. “They killed him. I want you to bring him back to me.”

El Charro didn’t answer right away. He turned and walked toward the lakeshore. He watched the violent current flow, sweeping everything in its path, as the drops of water struck the water with force and the branches of the nearby trees swayed violently. She looked at her own hands, her chest tight, as she waited for his answer; she felt the need to repent, that she no longer wanted anything from him, how the anxiety grew, even though her body no longer reacted as it had before.

“That man,” she murmured, “is still alive.”

She jerked her head up, with such force that she lost her balance for a moment, as if the world had shifted without warning.

“What?”

“They made you believe he died,” he continued, finally turning toward her. “They beat him, yes. They left him for dead. But he woke up. He’s still alive. Somewhere far from here.”

The silence that followed was dense, thick, as if the air had turned to water again. She shook her head slightly, unable to accept what she was hearing. It didn’t fit. It couldn’t fit with the pain she had felt, with the way everything had ended.

“No…” she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. “No… not that…”

But her voice broke before she could finish her denial. Something inside her stirred—something that wasn’t exactly pain, but a crack that opened deeper, letting in a hollow sensation. She curled in on herself, pressing her hand to her chest, her dress clinging to the damp grass as she looked at him, desperate for an answer that would bring her back to what she believed to be true.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice a whisper as she looked at him again. “Tell me…”

The Charro watched her calmly, and a flash of light illuminated his face for an instant. She could see him clearly then. He was young, too young for that gaze that seemed to have seen more than any life should. His features were fine, almost elegant, but there was something about him that wasn’t quite human. His eyes, dark and deep, didn’t reflect the light—they absorbed it—and in them there was no compassion, but neither was there cruelty.

“I know everything,” he replied. “It’s my job. But even if I give it to you, it won’t be as you expect. He doesn’t love you the same way you love him, and you know it.”

Even though everything about him screamed danger, even though his mere presence seemed to drag evil in its wake, when she heard him, she knew he wasn’t lying to her. She pressed her lips together, refusing to accept what her own heart was already beginning to understand.

“I don’t care,” she said, but her voice lacked the firmness she wanted. “I just want him to come back.”

She sat up as best she could, pushing herself up with her hands until she was on her knees in front of him. Her wet dress felt heavy, the grass clinging to the fabric, as she stared at him intently, almost desperately, as if his answer held the only thing she had left in the world.

“Even if he comes back,” he insisted, with a strange patience, almost unlike him, “he won’t love you the same way.”

He settled himself calmly, bringing his hands behind his back as he watched her, as if he were explaining something inevitable, something that couldn’t be changed no matter how much she wished it could.

“Not in the way a woman like you deserves to be loved.”

His words struck her with a strange warmth, yet at the same time with more force than she had expected. It wasn’t an immediate pain, but something that slowly dug in, making its way under her skin until it settled in her chest. She wanted to deny it, to say it wasn’t true, that he didn’t know anything, that he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Because deep down, she already knew.

“It’s not true…” she murmured, more to convince herself than him.

El Charro let out a faint chuckle—low and restrained—that didn’t sound like open mockery but something more dangerous. He brought his hand to his face for a moment, as if to hide that smile that didn’t need to be fully revealed, and when he looked at her again, his eyes no longer had that distant air they’d had before, but an uncomfortable intimacy, as if he’d disarmed her without touching her.

“You don’t even believe that yourself,” he said softly.

The words didn’t hit her hard, but they stayed with her, heavy, uncomfortable, settling in a place she couldn’t shake them from. She pressed her lips together, feeling her own denial begin to crack.

“Besides…” he continued, and his voice dropped slightly, becoming lower, more intimate, as if the world around them no longer mattered—“you can’t be with anyone anymore.”

The sentence fell with a different weight. It wasn’t a warning, nor a threat. It was a statement. She frowned slightly, feeling a restlessness she couldn’t name, a sensation running through her chest like a premonition that refused to take shape. She looked up at him, searching for an explanation that would give her back some control, something that would tell her she still understood what was happening.

“Why?”

El Charro didn’t answer right away; he tilted his head slightly, watching her as if gauging how ready she was to understand, and then, with an almost deliberate slowness, he gave a faint nod, pointing to the side of them. It was a minimal gesture, almost careless, but laden with an intention that made her skin crawl.

And with a fear that stemmed not from pain but from understanding, she turned her head.

El Charro didn’t stop her.

A few meters away, on the dark, sodden grass, lay a body.

The white dress, now gray and heavy, spread out around her like a withered flower, sunk into the wet earth. The fabric was torn in places, stuck to the ground, soaking up the rain as if it wanted to disappear into it. The dark, damp hair clung to the motionless face, barely concealing her features. Her arms were outstretched, limp, abandoned, as if they no longer belonged to anyone.

And that face.

It was hers.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t step back. There was no attempt to deny what she was seeing. She stood there, motionless, watching, while something inside her stopped resisting and began to settle in, inevitably.

She tried to find something within herself. Something that would confirm she was still the same. But she found nothing. Only a strange, calm emptiness that didn’t hurt, but offered no comfort either.

“Am I dead?” she finally asked.

And her voice didn’t tremble.

The air didn’t weigh on her lungs. The cold didn’t pierce her. The rain didn’t bother her. He looked at her without answering. The river continued its course without stopping, the storm did not part for her, and her own body—there, lying on the ground—showed no sign of life.

The world did not change.

It simply left her behind.

And in that silent abandonment, without tears, without screams, without resistance, and under the man’s gaze, she understood that there was no turning back.

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