The San Fermin Curtain

My parents were born in a small valley town called San Fermin, tucked between dry hills in the Mexican state of Jalisco. They left for the States when I was a baby, but my aunt Rosa stayed. When I was sixteen, I went to spend a summer with her, hoping to understand the place that shaped them.

The house was old, with thick adobe walls and a courtyard full of bougainvillea. My room was at the back, with a window that looked out onto a dusty yard and an outdoor bathroom, its door a grimy plastic curtain.

That first evening, after a long walk around the town, I went to unpack. But my suitcase was not where I left it. It had been moved to the center of the bed, and next to it lay a pile of folded clothes I had never seen – worn, faded, smelling of mothballs. I called for my aunt, but she just smiled and said, ‘Oh, those are for you. From your grandmother.’ She turned back to her sweeping, humming softly.

I didn’t question it. I was too tired. I unpacked, setting the strange clothes on a chair, and fell into a deep sleep.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a voice. It was soft, whispering my name: ‘Carlos…’ It came from outside. I bolted upright and peered through the window. The yard was empty, lit by a cool moon. A stray dog sat near the bathroom, watching it. The curtain over the bathroom door fluttered, though there was no wind.

The dog began to bark, low and urgent, as if warning something away. I pulled on my shoes and walked out. The air was still, smelling of dust and night-blooming jasmine. As I approached the bathroom, the curtain billowed out as if pushed by a hand. A girl stepped out – small, with dark hair and a white dress. She looked at me, eyes wide and colorless. She smiled, then turned and walked straight toward a gnarled old tree at the edge of the yard. And she vanished into the trunk, as if the tree were a doorway.

I stood frozen, heart pounding. The dog whimpered and trotted away.

I ran back inside and found my aunt in the kitchen, drinking coffee. She looked at me calmly. ‘You saw her,’ she said. ‘That’s Lupe. She died long ago, waiting for her love to come back. The tree is where she waited. She wants company.’

My aunt set down her cup. ‘The clothes I gave you? They were hers. She left them for a visitor. Every summer, she chooses someone to stay. She gets lonely.’

I looked at the pile of clothes on the chair. They were no longer just old clothes; they felt like a claim. That night, I did not sleep. I sat in the armchair, watching the window. The curtain over the bathroom hung still. But I heard a faint rustling from the tree, and a whispered ‘Carlos,’ again.

The next morning, I packed my things, told my aunt I had to leave. She didn’t argue. As I walked to the bus stop, I glanced back. The tree was swaying, though there was no wind. And for a moment, I saw the girl standing among its branches, waving goodbye with the same sad smile.

I never returned to San Fermin. But sometimes, in my sleep, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, and I hear a whisper: ‘I know you’ll come back.’ And I know that somewhere, in that dusty yard, the curtain is still fluttering, waiting for me.