Chikuatta -

Her mother shook her head, exhausted. “Nonsense. The fever talking.”

Her shovel struck something hard and hollow. She knelt and brushed away the dirt. A gourd. Not a drinking gourd or a bowl, but a sealed one, the size of her head, painted with spirals that seemed to move when she looked sideways. The paint was not clay or berry juice. It was the color of a dying ember—orange-red and faintly warm.

It was also the only thing eleven-year-old Sofía’s grandmother said before she died. chikuatta

Her mother took the gourd with trembling hands. For the first time, Sofía saw that her mother was not just tired. She was afraid. Not of the jungle or the spirits. Of remembering.

“The jungle. By the ceiba. Abuela’s word.” Her mother shook her head, exhausted

Then she fell back, gone.

Sofía sat down hard. Her chest felt too small for her lungs. She knelt and brushed away the dirt

That night, she brought the gourd to her mother. Her mother’s face went pale. “Where did you get this?”