Alma was nearly 20 years old when she met Pedro Madrigal, on one of the most magical and beloved nights of the year. It was the Día de Las Velitas (the day of the little candles), set in early December, a Holiday to mark the beginning of the Christmas season. On this night, countless little candles would light up the entire city, drawing a flickering map over the streets, transforming the place and transporting it to an enchanting realm. The smell of burning wax and the warm air of the flames create an almost divine atmosphere Alma would look forward to every year.
She climbed onto a bench to see more of the candles when a curious golden butterfly crossed and her eyes followed it until they saw Pedro's. She lost her balance when she saw the young man's sweet eyes, whose presence promised that everything would be okay.
Later that same evening, they sat together and talked for hours and hours, laughing and enjoying generous bites of arepas con queso that left their fingers sticky. Pedro was a keen observer, playful, but every word he spoke felt like poetry. He played the accordion and was the youngest of four brothers, while Alma was the only daughter of a seamstress.
It didn't take long for the two to fall in love, and got engaged in less than a year, however their promisse for matrimony would last a handful years, since money was tight and the economy was collapsing. When the wedding finally happened, it was just a week before día de las velitas, and it felt as though every flame was a promise blessing the new couple.
Although Pedro preferred art, he had to work as a carpenter with one of his brothers, which came in handy when furnishing the couple's small home. It was a little wattle-and-daub house, a little too warm in the summer and modest in size, but it didn't matter, for it was their new casita, their haven.
Unfortunately, all this intoxication of happiness would soon be threatened by ominous signs from the outside world, like a cloud looming over the glow of the little candles.
If asked, Alma would say she had never cared much about politics; for her, events beyond the city's borders held no interest, and her ambitions were limited to a life of peace and tranquility. Politics would stress people, make them yell at one another, on the verge of aggression, and that was exactly what she could not stand. To be honest, she longed for peace to enjoy more frequent celebrations, tranquility to spend without worry, and a bit more comfort. She dreamed of expanding her casita, making it colorful, with white hallways and an open patio for visitors and festivities, wishing to light her own velitas as many times a year as she could. But, at that moment, her dreams had to be held back. Amid a mix of anticipation and euphoria, her morning sickness and missed rules revealed an unplanned but welcome pregnancy. She had always wanted a large family, like Pedro's, but the attacks spreading from the capital to the most remote villages cast a shadow of uncertainty over their future.
Pedro, at first, was undeterred; he built a spacious crib, composed lullabies, and once again, his smile seemed to assure her that everything would turn out fine. The pregnancy progressed so quickly that, before long, the midwife suggested Alma might be expecting more than one child. Her feet swelled rapidly, her belly grew impressively, and she felt as big as a mountain.
Meanwhile, the guerrillas also thrived.
One by one, Pedro's brothers, unhappy volunteers, died fighting for a better life. The tailor shop where Alma's mamá worked was set on fire. More and more armed groups devastated streets and alleyways, destroying crops, killing livestock, and spreading hunger and misery.
The Día de las Velitas was less than three months away, and the turn of the new century would arrive shortly after, something that might have been a cause for excitement if not for the terror that consumed everything. That conflict would last another two years and would come to be known by the number of days it endured, but the young Madrigal couple would not stay to witness it. Two dozen families, weary and desperate for a place free from gunfire, gathered their bundles and whatever they could carry — some with no more than the clothes on their backs — and made their way through the forest, searching for a safe refuge.
Not even as a child had Alma ventured so far into the forest. Under different circumstances, she might have looked for butterflies and admired the flowers, but fear and adrenaline coursed through her with every step. The full moon shone high in the sky, above the treetops, when adrenaline was no longer enough to dull the pain. Alma fell to her knees and screamed, forgetting to stay silent. Her babies arrived a week earlier than expected and seemed unwilling to wait even an hour longer.
A couple older women helped Alma give birth in a squatting position, and the pain felt like it was setting her on fire from the inside out. Pedro held her hand, even as her grip nearly broke his fingers. It was definitely more than one child, and by the end of the labor, it seemed like there were more than three. But there were three: two girls, followed by a boy. The triplets were cleaned and wrapped in cloths with embroidering made by their abuela before being handed to Alma, who barely had the strength to stand.
They still weren't far enough away, and the group debated whether to spend the night there or keep moving. However, merciless hoofbeats made the decision for them: four corrupt soldiers approached, blood in their eyes, ready to steal the little that these poor people barely had.
Panic erupted as everyone started running. Alma's newborns, who had barely been fed and had never felt their father's arms, cried harder and louder. Amidst the chaos, Pedro stopped running. Alma was confused as their neighbors and friends pushed further into the forest, but Pedro remained still. He didn't look afraid — he looked sorrowful.
He dropped the lantern he was holding, its light coming from the candle used in their wedding. He kissed each of his children and then Alma, though she was too stunned to kiss him back.
Then, he walked the other way.
Unarmed and with his hands raised, Pedro approached the horsemen.
"No, no…" was all the young mother could repeat to herself as she watched the love of her life sacrifice himself.
The quartet of soldiers didn't even dismount from their horses. Alma became a widow in an instant.
She screamed. Her tears, mixed with the lingering pain of childbirth, made her fall to the ground for the second time that night. She nearly dropped her children as she collapsed. Her hand fell on the moss and dirt as the candle rolled from her grasp. Her face twisted in horror, unable to comprehend what she had just witnessed.
But her eyes opened again when a flash of light filled the air.
She felt the ground shift beneath her, heard her friends scream in astonishment, and saw the soldiers being pushed into the darkness as the candlelight grew brighter. Instead of extinguishing as it fell into the pink stream around her, the flame burned stronger. Its glow expanded until it became solid. Mountains began to rise, cutting off the path back to the city.
By magic, vibrant tiles emerged from the earth itself. Walls rose and grew taller, forming an immense structure with multiple levels, balconies painted in bright shades of yellow, pink, and purple, adorned with bougainvillea. At the top stood a green lookout tower. The terracotta rooftops gave the building a warm, welcoming feel, while a large cyan-blue door with intricate arches marked the entrance to what looked like a small palace.
In front of the structure stood the candle, shining brightly without melting a drop of wax.
The chatter of the people was indistinguishable, and Alma was speechless, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of events and emotions.
Then, the door opened by itself — first one side, then the other. The windows followed, their shutters opening and closing, almost as if… as if they were waving.
As absurd and almost frightening as it seemed, the sight was inviting. A sanctuary that seemed to embrace all those who had, just that morning, gathered their belongings in search of a roof and peace.
Alma barely realized when her feet carried her into the house. Was it a house? It felt like the home of a nobleman or a wealthy landowner. The open courtyard had a grand central staircase. When she thought she might faint, a rocking chair appeared, catching her legs.
"Alma!" exclaimed the midwife, her skirt still stained with blood. "It's a miracle!"
Yes. It was a miracle. What else could it be but a blessing?