The air in Puerto Oscuro smelled of salt, smog and secrets.
As the plane doors opened and Miguel stepped onto the jet bridge, the thick coastal heat slapped him full in the face. It was the kind of air that clung to the skin and whispered old memories onto your bones. His boots echoed along the corridor, heavy as the past he was dragging behind him. Dressed in muted jeans and a charcoal jacket, his features were hidden under the brim of a black baseball cap. He looked like just another traveler…except his eyes told another story—cold, calculating, searching.
He paused briefly at the top of the escalator, letting his gaze sweep across the small terminal, its once-polished tiles now dulled by dust and time. The signage hadn't changed. Vendors all scattered around selling varieties like before—nothing changed. But he had.
The sliding glass doors hissed opened ushering him into the arrival hall. In steady steps, he kept moving forward. He paused beside a row of chrome chairs, adjusting the strap of his worn duffel bag as he glanced around again. He looked up, down, right, and to the left. He looked to the right again and this time, he caught a glimpse of an aged woman with pure grey hairs. He stared a little longer, she was just like his Abuela(grandma); same discolored teeth, same thin neck.
He smiled, a core memory flashing before his eyes like celluloid. Perhaps it was the vivid fear in her faded brown eyes, or the tone of her voice that made that night unforgettable: the night he had told Abuela his plans of returning to Puerto Oscuro.
Time had frozen and all hell had broken loose when Miguel looked straight into Abuela's eyes and affirmed his statement ,
"I'm leaving for Puerto Oscuro."
The words hit her like she had just been stabbed with a sharp blade. Her throat went dry instantly. She had many things to say to him, but of what use would they have been? It was what he had wanted from the very beginning—his mind had always been made.
"those people will have you killed the moment they know who you are"she had managed to say, voice broken , so was her heart.
Miguel uttered no word, he only stepped forward before her and kissed her forehead, rubbed her shoulders and headed straight to the house without looking back—he didn't want to, he just couldn't.
"promise me Miguel—promise me that you are not going to get killed" Abuela's voice hit him as he opened the door, a murmur through tears. He paused, heart aching a little—maybe not so little. He swallowed hard, still not looking back. He shut the door.
Promises didn't weigh as much as vengeance.
He had shattered his poor Abuela's heart, he knew. But his mind was made, no retreat, no turning back.
He exhaled slowly, a breath into reality. He continued watching, enshrouded by an ounce of nostalgia. Families reunited with warm embraces. Taxi drivers shouted in fast, clipped Spanish. Mariachi music blasted from a nearby speaker. But all he could hear was gunshots. It's been seventeen years, but those sounds—those screams still echoed in his head. His head began to ache, he still felt every moment like it happened just yesterday.
He was ten. Hidden in the pantry, small fingers clamped over his mouth to muffle his whimpers. Through the crack in the door, he saw the blood pooling near his father's outstretched hand. His mother's screams still lived in the walls of his memory. Two men stood over his father, another dragged his mother as she continued to scream at the sight of her husband's almost lifeless body.
"This is betrayal" His father grumbled.
Then gunshots. Then silence. Then footsteps. Then flames.
Miguel blinked twice, palm brushing through the scar down his neck. It didn't hurt anymore, but his heart still did. If he hadn't ran through flames that night, he also would have been burnt to his bones.
But here he was, back to the city of blood and gold. One thing was sure: he was going to exert his revenge, even if it meant putting his life on the line. But for his Abuela's sake, the heavens better guide him.
A red rubber ball bounced once, twice, then rolled gently until it tapped Miguel's boot.
Fully drawn back to reality, he looked down.
A child's giggle echoed, followed by the hurried steps of another person
"lo siento señor!" came a voice—bright, melodic and slightly out of breath.
He turned. A few paces away, a honey-haired little girl stood anxiously, pointing. His eyes followed her tiny finger and it was pointed towards the ball that was before his boot.
The other person appeared gracefully, her loose blouse fluttering against slim black jeans, a leather backpack slung casually over her shoulder. She was the one who spoke—the one with a bright and melodic voice—not the child.
"would you mind?" she asked, gesturing towards the ball, and hoping he did understand English.
Miguel didn't respond. Instead, he looked from the ball to her, then back again—his posture stiff, jaw clenched. He looked straight into her eyes, her eyes were bright and filled with enthusiasm, her scanty lashes fluttered, exactly the way he had seen ladies do it in movies—seductively.
The lady raised an eyebrow, a hint of impatience flickering in her eyes.
"perdón, señor…" she said, drifting back to Spanish, perhaps he didn't understand English. She leaned down to retrieve the ball, but before she could reach it, Miguel placed his boot lightly on it, eyes never leaving hers.
The lady straightened slowly, brows narrowing.
"it's for the little girl," she added, pointing at the static little girl nearby.
Again, Miguel didn't say a word—just stared, cold and distant.
"it's a baalll, not a booommb" the lady explained, her lips stretching as she solidly pronounced "ball." And when she pronounced "bomb" her hands demonstrated explosion. Miguel still watched her closely, many things running through his mind. But most importantly, he wondered why she wasn't intimidated by him—his physique, his silence, his cold stares—others did back off at his very first stare.
"excuse me!!" the lady flared up, patience timed out. Miguel flinched—a little; he never expected the scream. Now there were lurking eyes of people, who possibly concluded he was trying to steal from the lady.
"just get your boot off the ball!" in seconds, her face switched to a .
After a long beat of silence , he lifted his foot slightly. He didn't want to—at least not so easily—but he did. It was her hazel eyes. They bewitched him. She grabbed the ball in a quick, graceful motion and turned back without a second glance.
"Qué desgradable," she muttered under her breath in Spanish.
How unpleasant.
The little girl beamed as the lady handed her the ball. She mouthed a quick "Gracias!" as she hurried away to catch up with her parents at the other end of the hall.
But just before disappearing into the crowd, the lady looked back at Miguel. Only for few seconds, long enough for him to catch the glimpse of the tattoo on her chest. The writings were almost covered by her blouse, but the last letter "a" was visible—a letter of her name probably.
Even as she looked away, his eyes still never left her. She trailed in slow, gracious steps towards her seat, where two suitcases laid. Two men in black suits suddenly approached her, one pulled both suitcases and began rolling them away, the other quickly offered to carry her bag. She instantly shoved his hands away. Miguel scoffed.
Arrogant spoilt daughter, He thought, as he watched her go.
He didn't think much of it, even though he was fazed by her for a moment.
She was just another girl in another city.