In a small community, south of its capital, a woman led the local police. Her name was Commandant Elena Robles. She was a mother, always ready for the daily routine, and her son Mateo also lived in the community.

The locality was accompanied by thousands of stories, for such a small place. Among them was one that could only be hidden underground. The story was about the young people who were once lost in fear when they only went out to play, but who were still living memories for the police, who usually went out to search.

Until, suddenly, the steam of the earth came out of that small place. As a sign that Mother Nature needed to let go.

Commandant Elena and her team arrived immediately, ready to finalize the story once and for all. Mateo, who was on his way to travel the road that would lead him to his new home, stopped, feeling the need to mediate.

The steam that day was a white smoke that did not burn, and on the contrary, it had a breeze that brought freshness to the entire community.

—We will take out these memories and exile them from the map, Mother —said one of the officers—. We cannot continue to carry this pain.

—Wait —Mateo's voice cut the order. He addressed his mother, the wind moving the steam between them—. Mother, these memories do not need punishment or banishment. Why don't you ask them, Elena, how they want to live in this new opportunity?

Elena Robles paused. She looked at her son, who was already turning away, getting into his truck. She saw the cool, white smoke and felt the certainty of the new era that her departing son was announcing.

Who knows what Commandant Robles thought in that moment? But since then, the story changed, as if a new portal had opened, where every memory found a beautiful place. And where its echo spread goodness, to every small community, and also to the country that sheltered the story.

—

A while later, those memories transformed into a very peculiar art, filling any place with life and light. Like fireflies that glow in the night, needing nothing else. This was the day these memories arrived at a small plaza to show their art.

The plaza already had its people. The artists approached a man.

—Hello, we want to know if we can show our art here —they said.

—I am not the owner of this place —the man replied—. You have to come in the afternoon to talk with those who already coexist here.

An older man, Don Elías, listening nearby, murmured aloud: "The land is free for everyone..."

—This man is absolutely right —replied the first man, nodding at Don Elías—, the land is free. But a group coexists here, and it would be best to consult with them.

To which a third person entered the conversation and said: "You know, I will talk to the afternoon folks for you."

But well, that is a story for another day.

In a small community, south of its capital, a woman led the local police. Her name was Commandant Elena Robles. She was a mother, always ready for the daily routine, and her son Mateo also lived in the community.

The locality was accompanied by thousands of stories, for such a small place. Among them was one that could only be hidden underground. The story was about the young people who were once lost in fear when they only went out to play, but who were still living memories for the police, who usually went out to search.

Until, suddenly, the steam of the earth came out of that small place. As a sign that Mother Nature needed to let go.

Commandant Elena and her team arrived immediately, ready to finalize the story once and for all. Mateo, who was on his way to travel the road that would lead him to his new home, stopped, feeling the need to mediate.

The steam that day was a white smoke that did not burn, and on the contrary, it had a breeze that brought freshness to the entire community.

—We will take out these memories and exile them from the map, Mother —said one of the officers—. We cannot continue to carry this pain.

—Wait —Mateo's voice cut the order. He addressed his mother, the wind moving the steam between them—. Mother, these memories do not need punishment or banishment. Why don't you ask them, Elena, how they want to live in this new opportunity?

Elena Robles paused. She looked at her son, who was already turning away, getting into his truck. She saw the cool, white smoke and felt the certainty of the new era that her departing son was announcing.

Who knows what Commandant Robles thought in that moment? But since then, the story changed, as if a new portal had opened, where every memory found a beautiful place. And where its echo spread goodness, to every small community, and also to the country that sheltered the story.

—

A while later, those memories transformed into a very peculiar art, filling any place with life and light. Like fireflies that glow in the night, needing nothing else. This was the day these memories arrived at a small plaza to show their art.

The plaza already had its people. The artists approached a man.

—Hello, we want to know if we can show our art here —they said.

—I am not the owner of this place —the man replied—. You have to come in the afternoon to talk with those who already coexist here.

An older man, Don Elías, listening nearby, murmured aloud: "The land is free for everyone..."

—This man is absolutely right —replied the first man, nodding at Don Elías—, the land is free. But a group coexists here, and it would be best to consult with them.

To which a third person entered the conversation and said: "You know, I will talk to the afternoon folks for you."

But well, that is a story for another day.