The humid afternoon air hung thick and still over the small village of Xocchel, pressing down like a damp blanket. Mateo swiped a bead of sweat from his temple, the rhythmic thwack of his mother’s hands shaping masa in the back kitchen a familiar, monotonous counterpoint to the buzz of flies near the open doorway of their small tienda de abarrotes. Business was slow, as it often was between the morning rush for necessities and the evening return of workers from the fields or nearby towns. He traced patterns in the thin layer of dust on the wooden counter, his gaze drifting out to the sun-bleached street where a lone dog slept soundly in the sliver of shade offered by the cantina opposite.

  He felt adrift lately, caught in the predictable currents of village life. Wake, open the shop, endure the midday heat, help close, eat, sleep, repeat. He loved his family, his home, but a restless energy thrummed beneath his skin, a longing for something… more. Something different than the familiar swimming spots – Cenote Azul, always crowded with laughing children, or the larger, deeper Cenote Nah Yah, where teenagers dared each other to jump from the highest ledge.

  The jingle of the bell above the door startled him. Old Don Rafael shuffled in, his huaraches scuffing softly on the worn tile floor. Rafael was a fixture in Xocchel, his face a roadmap of wrinkles earned over eighty-odd years, his eyes still sharp and prone to twinkling when he shared one of his rambling stories – stories most people dismissed as fanciful exaggerations fueled by age and perhaps a little too much xtabentún.

  “Buenas tardes, Mateo,” Rafael rasped, his voice dry as the dust outside. “Just a bit of coffee, the strong kind.”

  “Buenas tardes, Don Rafael,” Mateo replied, reaching for the familiar burlap sack. He scooped the dark beans into a small paper bag, the rich aroma momentarily cutting through the stale air. “Anything else today?”

  Rafael leaned conspiratorially over the counter, his gaze sweeping the empty shop before settling back on Mateo. “You look bored, muchacho. Like a fish stuck in a drying puddle.”

  Mateo gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s quiet today.”

  “Too quiet for a young man,” Rafael agreed, tapping a gnarled finger on the counter. “You should go swimming. Cool off. Find some… adventure.” He winked.

  “I know all the spots, Don Rafael. Azul is full of kids, Nah Yah is… well, it’s Nah Yah.” Mateo sighed. “Same water, different day.”

  Rafael’s eyes gleamed. He lowered his voice, though there was no one else to hear. “Not all the spots, Mateo. Not the deep ones. Not the secret ones.” He paused for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch. “Have you ever heard of Cenote Silencio?”

  Mateo frowned. “The Silent Cenote? No. I’ve never heard anyone mention it.”

  “Exactly!” Rafael hissed triumphantly. “Because few know it. And fewer still dare to go. It is… far. Deep in the jungle, past the old henequen plantation ruins. A long walk, maybe a bike ride if the path is clear this season.”

  “Why is it called Silent?” Mateo asked, his earlier lethargy replaced by a spark of curiosity.

  “Ah.” Rafael peered at him. “Some say it’s because the jungle is unnaturally quiet around it. No birdsong, no monkeys chattering. Others… others say it’s because the water itself seems to swallow sound. It’s deep, Mateo. Deeper than Nah Yah, they say. Crystal clear, cold… and it has a… pull.”

  “A pull?”

  “An undertow. Not like the sea, understand. Something different. The old ones used to say the cenote breathes. Sometimes it pulls inward, sometimes it pushes out. They say things lost in that cenote are never seen again. Not like things lost in Nah Yah, which might wash up downstream somewhere eventually. In Silencio… they vanish.” He straightened up, taking the bag of coffee Mateo held out. “It’s probably just stories. But the water is different there. Cold. And very, very clear.”

  He dropped a few coins on the counter, more than required. “Be careful if you go looking for it, muchacho. Some places prefer to be left alone.”

  Don Rafael shuffled out, leaving Mateo alone once more in the quiet shop. But the quiet felt different now. It wasn’t empty; it was charged with possibility. Cenote Silencio. The Silent Cenote. A place few dared to go, deep in the jungle, with water that breathed and had a mysterious pull.

  Suddenly, the predictable current of his life felt breakable. He looked out at the sleeping dog, the dusty street, the oppressive heat, and made a decision. He would find this Cenote Silencio. He needed to feel that cold, clear water, to see if the silence was real, to understand that mysterious pull Don Rafael spoke of. He needed an adventure, even if it was just finding a forgotten swimming hole.

  He started closing the shop early.

  Mateo pushed through the beaded curtain separating the small shop from their living quarters behind it. The air was even warmer here, thick with the earthy smell of cooking masa and woodsmoke from the stove. His mother, Elena, stood by the worn wooden table, her hands deftly patting a tortilla into a perfect circle. She didn't look up immediately, her focus entirely on the task. Lines of concentration were etched around her eyes, softened slightly by the stray wisps of dark hair escaping her braid.

  "Mamá," Mateo began, lingering near the doorway.

  "Hmm?" She flipped the tortilla onto the hot comal with a practiced flick of her wrist. The familiar hiss filled the small kitchen.

  "I'm closing the shop up for the rest of the afternoon," he said, trying to sound casual.

  That got her attention. She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Closing? It's barely two o'clock, Mateo. What about Se?ora Flores? She always comes for her candles around three."

  "She can come tomorrow," Mateo said, shifting his weight. "I wanted to... I heard about a place. A cenote."

  Elena picked up another ball of masa, her movements slowing. "Another cenote? Is Nah Yah not good enough today? Or Azul too crowded for your important thoughts?" There was a familiar edge of weary sarcasm in her voice.

  "It's not one of those," he pressed on, ignoring the jab. "Don Rafael was just in. He told me about one called Cenote Silencio. Deep in the jungle, past the old henequen place. Have you ever heard of it?"

  His mother paused, her hands stilling completely on the dough. She looked past him, her gaze distant for a moment, a flicker of something – recognition? unease? – crossing her face before vanishing. "Silencio," she murmured, testing the name. "I think... maybe my abuela used to mention something. A bad place, she said. A place that… takes things." She shook her head sharply, dismissing the thought. "Just old wives' tales, Mateo. Like Don Rafael's stories. Probably doesn't even exist."

  "He said it was real," Mateo insisted. "Crystal clear water, very deep. Do you know how to get there?"

  "Know how to get there?" Elena scoffed, turning back to the comal with renewed, almost aggressive energy. "Why would I know how to get to some cursed puddle in the middle of nowhere that my grandmother warned us about? I have work to do, real work, not chasing ghosts mentioned by old men and dead relatives." She flipped a tortilla with unnecessary force. "And so do you. Se?ora Flores needs her candles. The floor needs sweeping. You think this shop runs itself?"

  "I just want to see it, Mamá," Mateo said, his voice quiet but firm. "I'll sweep the floor when I get back. It won't take long."

  "Won't take long?" She rounded on him, hands on her hips, masa forgotten. "To find a place that might not exist, based on directions from Don Rafael, deep in the jungle as the afternoon wears on? Use your head, Mateo! It's foolishness. Go swim in Nah Yah if you're so hot. Don't go wandering off chasing legends and leaving the store unattended!"

  Mateo met her gaze. He saw the frustration, the worry beneath the anger about the shop. But the pull of the unknown, the image of that silent, deep water, was stronger. "I need to do this," he said simply. He turned before she could argue further, heading towards the small back door that led out towards the edge of the village and the waiting jungle. He grabbed an old canvas water bottle hanging from a peg as he went.

  "Mateo!" Her voice was sharp, demanding. "Don't you walk away! Where do you think you're going?"

  He paused at the door, looking back at her defiant stance by the stove. "To find Cenote Silencio," he replied, and slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun before she could utter another word.

  Mateo slipped out the back door into the narrow, dusty alley behind their house, the heat hitting him like a physical force. His mother's angry shouts faded behind the thick walls. For a moment, he hesitated. The sensible part of him echoed her warnings – the heat, the vague directions, the forgotten chores. He glanced back at the doorway, half-expecting her to appear.

  Then, his gaze fell on the path leading away from the village houses, towards the dense green wall of the jungle that began just a few hundred meters away. The image of the cool, silent cenote pulled at him again, a counter-current to his mother’s demands.

  He ducked back inside, not into the kitchen, but into the dim quiet of the closed shop. His eyes quickly found the small shelf where the plain white veladoras were stacked. Acting on muscle memory as much as a fleeting sense of obligation, he grabbed two candles, the ones Se?ora Flores always bought for her small altar. At least Mamá can't say I forgot completely, he thought, though he knew it wouldn't placate her.

  He tucked the candles into the small pouch on his belt where he kept a few pesos and a folding knife. Should he ask someone else? Old Man Chepe sometimes sat mending fishing nets in the shade by the plaza; he knew the jungle paths better than anyone. But Chepe wasn't likely to be there in the peak heat, and besides, asking would mean more warnings, more delays. Don Rafael’s words, cryptic as they were – “past the old henequen plantation ruins” – felt like enough. A challenge. Finding it was part of the adventure.

  No, he wouldn't ask anyone else. This was something he needed to do alone.

  With a final glance around the familiar, now slightly shadowed shop, Mateo stepped back out into the alley, this time turning resolutely towards the jungle's edge. He could drop the candles off quickly; Se?ora Flores lived just two houses down, on the way to the path. It was a small detour, a minor concession before yielding entirely to the pull of the unknown, silent water.

  The walk to Se?ora Flores’ house took only a minute, two houses down the same dusty lane. The sun beat down relentlessly, reflecting off the whitewashed walls. Most people were wisely indoors, seeking refuge from the peak afternoon heat. Mateo kept to the thin ribbon of shade cast by the low eaves.

  He knocked lightly on Se?ora Flores’ weathered wooden door. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing the elderly woman’s wrinkled face peering out. Her eyes went from Mateo to the candles in his hand.

  “Ah, Mateo. Your mother sent you? I was going to stop by later,” she said, her voice thin but kind.

  “I was closing early, Se?ora,” Mateo explained, handing her the candles. “Mamá mentioned you needed them.”

  She took them with a grateful nod, her fingers tracing the familiar shape. “Thank you, mijo. It’s too hot for anyone to be out running errands.” Her gaze drifted past him, towards the direction of the jungle path. “You heading out of the village?”

  Before Mateo could answer, a voice called out from across the lane. “Mateo! Hey, Mateo!”

  Mateo turned. Lounging in the shade of a sprawling flamboyant tree, idly tossing pebbles into the dust, was his younger cousin, Luis. Luis was fifteen, wiry and energetic, often bored and looking for something interesting to do – much like Mateo himself felt, only Luis was usually more vocal about it.

  “Where are you going?” Luis called, getting to his feet and brushing dust from his trousers. “Looks like you’re heading for the jungle.”

  Mateo hesitated. He glanced back at Se?ora Flores, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity. “Just… going for a swim,” Mateo replied vaguely, wanting to get moving.

  “A swim? Where? Nah Yah?” Luis trotted across the lane, his interest clearly piqued. “Can I come? I’m dying of boredom here.”

  Se?ora Flores chuckled softly. “Go cool off, boys, but don’t stray too far. The jungle’s not a playground.” She gave Mateo a final nod and retreated back into the cool darkness of her house, closing the door.

  Mateo looked at Luis’s eager face. His initial desire for solitude warred with the ingrained habit of looking out for his younger cousin, and perhaps a small, unacknowledged part of him thought having company might not be the worst idea if this place was truly as remote as Don Rafael claimed.

  He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Not Nah Yah. A different place. A secret place. Don Rafael told me about it – Cenote Silencio.”

  Luis’s eyes widened. “Silencio? The one the old folks whisper about? The one that’s supposed to be… weird?” Excitement replaced his boredom entirely. “No way! Are you really going there? You gotta let me come, Mateo! Please?”

  Mateo considered for another moment. Luis could be annoying, but he was also quick on his feet and knew the nearby jungle fringes almost as well as Mateo did. Having someone to watch his back… maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. And Luis wouldn’t mock him for chasing a story; he’d embrace the adventure.

  “Alright,” Mateo relented with a sigh that was only half feigned. “But keep up, and no complaining if the walk is long. And don’t tell Mamá where we really went, understand? Just say we went swimming.”

  “My lips are sealed!” Luis grinned, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go! Past the henequen ruins, right?”

  Mateo nodded, surprised Luis knew that detail. Perhaps the whispers about the place were more common than he thought, even if specific knowledge was scarce.

  Together, the two boys turned away from the last houses of Xocchel. The dusty lane gave way to a narrower, overgrown path choked with weeds and encroaching vines. Ahead lay the dappled shade of the jungle’s edge and, somewhere beyond the shimmering heat haze and the crumbling ruins, the promise of cold, silent water.

  The last dusty yards of Xocchel fell away behind them, swallowed by the sudden, sharp green edge of the jungle. It was like stepping into another world. The blinding glare of the sun was instantly muted, filtered through a dense canopy layers above, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of emerald and shadow. The dry heat of the village was replaced by a thick, cloying humidity that slicked their skin with sweat almost immediately. The air hung heavy, smelling of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the sweet, cloying scent of unseen blossoms. A cacophony of insect buzzes, unseen rustlings in the undergrowth, and the distant calls of birds replaced the sleepy village sounds.

  “This is more like it!” Luis declared, swatting away a large, iridescent beetle that flew too close. He pushed forward eagerly, ducking under low-hanging vines.

  Mateo followed, already feeling the exertion. The path Don Rafael had mentioned was barely visible, more a suggestion of passage than a true trail, choked with opportunistic weeds and thorny bushes that snagged at their clothes. They walked single file, Luis taking the lead for a while, then Mateo, using his longer reach to bend or break obstructing branches. The initial burst of excited chatter faded as the effort of the trek took over. The humid air was hard to draw deep into the lungs, and the constant need to watch their footing on the root-laced ground demanded concentration.

  Time seemed to warp in the unchanging green tunnel. The sun climbed higher, its heat intensifying even in the shade. Sweat plastered Mateo’s shirt to his back, and he could hear Luis breathing harder behind him. They stopped occasionally for brief sips from Mateo’s water bottle, the lukewarm water doing little to truly refresh them. The sounds of the jungle seemed to press closer, a constant, vibrant thrum that paradoxically made the world feel both intensely alive and deeply isolating.

  After what felt like hours, the terrain began to change subtly. The towering hardwoods were interspersed with thicker, scrubbier growth. Mateo noticed remnants of old stone walls, low and crumbling, almost entirely consumed by curtains of vines and strangler figs. He pointed.

  “Must be getting close to the plantation,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

  Luis nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. “About time. My legs feel like lead.”

  They pushed through a particularly dense thicket of bamboo and emerged into a larger, more open space, though still heavily overgrown. Here, the jungle fought a losing battle against more substantial man-made structures, or perhaps it was the other way around. Skeletal remains of stone buildings stood draped in greenery, their walls fissured by the relentless roots of trees growing straight through their foundations. A large, rusted metal wheel – part of some long-forgotten machinery – lay tilted on its side, half-buried in the earth like the bone of some extinct metal beast. The air here felt different, weighted with the silence of abandonment.

  They stopped in the dappled sunlight filtering through a collapsed roof, catching their breath and looking around. This was it – the old henequen plantation ruins. Don Rafael had said the cenote lay past here, deeper still. They were only halfway, Mateo realized, maybe less. The jungle waited, dense and indifferent, on the far side of the decaying stones.

  Mateo took another swig from the water bottle, rinsing his mouth before swallowing the warm liquid. “Alright,” he said, screwing the cap back on. “Don Rafael said past the ruins. We need to find where the path picks up again.”

  They skirted the edge of the crumbling main building, moving towards the far side of the clearing where the dense jungle resumed its unbroken wall. The silence of the ruins felt heavy, different from the vibrant hum of the jungle they’d walked through. Here, it felt watchful. Luis kicked at a loose stone, sending a small lizard skittering for cover.

  “Which way?” Luis asked, scanning the wall of green. “It all looks the same. Thick.”

  “There must be something,” Mateo murmured, his eyes tracing the edge where the overgrown clearing met the true forest. “An opening. Maybe another game trail.”

  They split up slightly, walking parallel to the jungle’s edge, scanning the ground and the seemingly impenetrable wall of vegetation. Luis, closer to a patch where recent rains had left the ground damp beneath the canopy’s overhang, suddenly stopped.

  “Mateo. Look.”

  Mateo walked over. Luis was pointing at the mud. Embedded there, sharp and distinct, were the prints of a large cat. Very large. The rounded shape, the lack of claw marks typical of a dog or coyote – there was no mistaking them.

  “Jaguar,” Mateo breathed, feeling a prickle of cold despite the heat. He crouched, examining them closer. They weren’t fresh, perhaps a day or two old, but they were clear evidence that something powerful shared this remote space. He noted thankfully that the tracks led parallel to the ruins, deeper into the jungle off to their right, not directly across the path they sought. “Big one, too.”

  Luis swallowed, his earlier bravado momentarily gone. “Think it’s still around?”

  “Probably long gone,” Mateo said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “But we need to be careful. Stay alert.” The presence of the tracks, while unsettling, also reinforced the wildness of the place, the truth behind why few people came here. It made the cenote feel even more hidden, more real.

  They continued their search, moving now with heightened awareness, scanning the trees as much as the ground. A few meters further along, Mateo paused. Near a barely perceptible gap in the undergrowth, almost hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines, grew a dense cluster of vibrant green ferns. They were different from the common ones, with delicate, almost feathery fronds that clung to the lower branches of a gnarled tree.

  “Xáanil nal,” Mateo whispered, recognizing them. He remembered Don Rafael’s rambling description, a detail almost lost in the old man’s tales: “…where the air itself feels cool, you might find the xáanil nal growing thick. The cenote breathes, see? And the little ferns, they like that breath…”

  It was vague, bordering on folklore, but here they were, exactly as described, thriving near this hidden opening while being scarce elsewhere in the ruins. The air did feel marginally cooler here, a subtle shift barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention. This had to be it.

  He pushed aside a curtain of vines, revealing a narrow opening, darker than the surrounding jungle, leading downwards slightly. It wasn't inviting, but it felt purposeful.

  “This way,” Mateo said, looking at Luis.

  Luis peered past him into the shadows, then glanced back in the direction the jaguar tracks had headed. He took a deep breath, his adventurous spirit returning. “Okay. Let’s go find your Cenote Silencio.”

  Mateo nodded, gave one last check to the pouch holding Se?ora Flores' candles – a strange, grounding reminder of the village they’d left behind – and ducked through the opening, Luis close behind him. The dense vegetation immediately closed behind them, swallowing the ruins and the sunlight, plunging them into the deep green shade of the jungle beyond.

  Mateo ducked through the opening marked by the xáanil nal ferns, Luis right behind him. He gave one last check to the pouch on his belt—his folding knife secure, a few pesos, and the single extra candle he hadn't given Se?ora Flores (he'd grabbed three from the shelf, unsure how many she usually bought). A small, smooth, useless cylinder, but a tangible link to the world they were leaving further and further behind.

  The jungle instantly became denser, darker. The air, if possible, grew heavier, trapping the heat. The vague trail they had followed vanished almost immediately, forcing them to push directly through tangled undergrowth, relying on Mateo’s sense of direction and the slight downward trend of the land. Progress slowed considerably. Branches whipped at their faces, thorns tore at their clothes, and unseen roots threatened to trip them with every step.

  The vibrant symphony of the jungle near the ruins faded into an unnerving quiet. The incessant buzz of insects lessened, the calls of birds ceased entirely. The only sounds were their own ragged breathing, the swish and snap of disturbed vegetation, and the pounding of blood in their ears. It wasn’t peaceful; it felt like the forest was holding its breath, listening.

  “How much further, Mateo?” Luis panted, pausing to lean against a thick tree trunk, wiping sweat that dripped into his eyes. “It feels like we’ve been walking forever. Are you sure this is right?”

  “It feels right,” Mateo replied, though doubt was starting to gnaw at him too. The silence was deeply unsettling. “Don Rafael said it was deep in. Keep moving.”

  He took the lead again, pushing aside a large palm frond. His foot landed on what seemed like solid ground covered in leaf litter, but then it shifted. With a sickening crumble and slide, the earth gave way beneath him. He yelped, windmilling his arms as his leg plunged downwards into sudden, cool darkness. Loose soil and stones cascaded into an unseen void below.

  “Mateo!” Luis shouted, lunging forward.

  Mateo scrabbled frantically, his hands finding purchase on a thick root just as his momentum threatened to pull him completely into the hole. He clung tight, heart hammering against his ribs, his dangling leg swinging freely in the dark space below. He could feel a cool draft rising from the fissure.

  Luis grabbed Mateo’s arm, pulling hard. “Hold on! I’ve got you!”

  With Luis hauling from above and Mateo kicking against the crumbling edge, he managed to wrench his leg free, scrambling backwards onto more solid ground, gasping for air. They both stared at the newly revealed hole – a narrow, jagged fissure partly hidden by roots and leaves, dropping away into blackness. A dislodged rock clattered down, the sound echoing for a surprisingly long time before fading into silence.

  They sat there for a minute, breathing heavily, the adrenaline coursing through them. The near-fall had shattered the monotonous fatigue, replacing it with sharp fear.

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  “Dios mío,” Luis whispered, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

  “Sinkhole, maybe? Or a cave entrance,” Mateo said, his voice unsteady. He peered cautiously towards the edge again. It looked deep. The ground here felt thin, hollow. “The whole area could be like this. Limestone… it gets eaten away underneath.”

  The scare served as a stark reminder of the dangers beyond just jaguars or getting lost. The earth itself felt treacherous here, unstable. Shaken but newly alert, they got to their feet, giving the fissure a wide berth. They continued onward, moving now with extreme caution, testing the ground before committing their weight, the oppressive silence of the jungle seeming even more menacing than before.

  They moved away from the fissure with the caution of bomb disposal experts, testing each footstep, poking uncertain ground with sturdy sticks they’d picked up. The adrenaline from the near-fall slowly faded, leaving behind a residue of fear that sharpened their senses but did little to combat their returning exhaustion. The brief surge of energy bled away, replaced by the dull ache of tired muscles and the gnawing drag of the humid heat, which seemed trapped beneath the canopy, refusing to stir.

  The silence deepened. It wasn't merely quiet; it was a presence. The familiar background hum of the jungle – the insects, the birds, the rustle of unseen creatures – was gone, completely absent. Even the wind seemed hesitant, occasionally whispering through the highest leaves of the canopy giants, but leaving the understory utterly still. It pressed in on them, amplifying the sound of their own bodies: the rasp of their breathing, the thud of their hearts, the unnaturally loud crunch and swish of their boots through the leaf litter. When Luis spoke, his voice, barely above a whisper, sounded like a shout in the stillness.

  “See anything?”

  Mateo shook his head, scanning the monotonous green. “Just… trees.” He whispered back, the silence feeling too profound to break with a normal voice. It felt expectant, like the whole jungle was holding its breath, waiting. Or listening.

  Time blurred. The sun, an unseen clock somewhere above the dense roof of leaves, shifted, angling the dappled light differently across the forest floor. Shadows that had been short began to stretch. Their search became a weary rhythm: push through vines, scan the ground for depressions or rock formations, check the trees for ferns, pause, listen to the overwhelming silence, move on. Hope dwindled with their energy. They found clumps of ferns that weren’t quite right, hollows that led nowhere. Luis slumped against a tree more often, his face etched with frustration.

  “Mateo, maybe Don Rafael was just telling stories,” Luis mumbled, wiping grime from his face. “Maybe there’s nothing here. We should head back before it gets dark.”

  “No,” Mateo said, his voice low but stubborn. He felt it too – the doubt, the exhaustion. But something else, too. An intuition, a feeling that they were close, that the silence meant something. “We’re close. I can feel it.”

  And then, the signs began to converge. The air, which had hinted at coolness near the fissure, now carried a distinct, damp chill, like breathing near a spring-fed well. The ground began to slope downwards more definitively, channeling them into a slight ravine choked with vegetation. And the ferns – the delicate, feathery xáanil nal – became more common, not just isolated clumps, but spreading carpets of them clinging to rocks and tree bases, thriving in the cool, still air.

  Mateo pushed aside a low-hanging branch dripping with condensation, revealing a narrow but distinct path – more than just a game trail – leading down into an even deeper shadow. The ferns grew thickest here, lining the path like an honour guard. At the base of a massive ceiba tree whose roots coiled like serpents across the ground, lay a single smooth, dark stone, unlike the rough limestone surrounding it. It looked placed. Deliberate.

  Mateo stopped, his weariness momentarily forgotten. Luis came up beside him, looking down the path, then at the ferns, then at Mateo. The oppressive silence remained, but now it felt different – less empty, more like the quiet before a revelation.

  They had found it. Or at least, the way in.

  Mateo exchanged a look with Luis – a silent acknowledgment that this was it. The exhaustion, the doubt, the fear of jaguars and hidden fissures, all seemed to momentarily recede, replaced by a thrill of discovery tinged with apprehension. He took the lead, pushing aside the last screen of vines and starting down the narrow path.

  The slope steepened quickly, leading them down into a shadowed hollow. The air grew noticeably colder, raising goosebumps on Mateo’s sweat-slicked arms. The thick carpet of xáanil nal ferns covered the ground and slick rocks, muffling their footsteps further, adding to the profound quiet. Roots snaked across the path, and moisture dripped steadily from unseen overhangs above, echoing faintly in the enclosed space. It felt less like the jungle now, and more like the approach to a cave.

  The path twisted around a buttress root the size of a small cart, and then the view opened up below them.

  It wasn’t like Cenote Azul, a wide, sunlit swimming pool open to the sky. This was different. They stood on a rocky ledge overlooking a deep, dark chasm, partially roofed by the earth above, festooned with hanging vines and tree roots that reached down like grasping fingers towards the water below. Sunlight filtered weakly through a few openings high above, illuminating patches of the cavernous space but leaving most of it in shadow.

  And the water.

  It began perhaps twenty feet below their ledge, a pool of impossible clarity and profound darkness. Where the weak sunlight touched it near the edges, it shimmered invitingly, revealing smooth, pale limestone formations beneath the surface. But further out, towards the center of the pool, the light was swallowed whole, hinting at depths Mateo couldn’t begin to guess. It was utterly still, without a single ripple, reflecting the dark roof and hanging roots like a black mirror. The silence here was absolute; even the dripping water seemed to vanish into it without echo. Don Rafael was right – it swallowed sound.

  “Whoa,” Luis breathed, his voice barely audible despite the quiet. “It’s… real.”

  They carefully made their way down the last section of the path, which devolved into a series of natural stone steps slick with moss and moisture, clinging to roots for balance. They emerged onto a narrow bank of smooth rock and sand at the water's edge, inside the cavernous opening. Looking up, the jungle entrance seemed like a small, bright hole far above. Down here, it was cool, dim, and silent. The air smelled clean and cold, like stone and deep water.

  They stood side-by-side, gazing out over the still, black water. The heat and exhaustion of the jungle trek felt a world away. Here was the mystery Don Rafael had spoken of, the Cenote Silencio. It was beautiful, eerie, and undeniably powerful in its stillness. The urge to plunge into that cool, clear water, to escape the memory of the oppressive heat, was almost overwhelming. Almost. There was still the echo of warning – it has a pull… it swallows things… – lingering in the heavy silence.

  They stood at the edge of the subterranean pool, the cool, damp air a stark contrast to the memory of the sweltering jungle they’d endured. The silence pressed in, vast and ancient. Mateo looked at the water – so clear near the edge he could count the pebbles on the submerged rock shelf, yet fading rapidly into impenetrable blackness further out. He felt the pull of it, the promise of oblivion from the heat, the dirt, the exhaustion. Beside him, Luis shivered, though whether from the cool air or apprehension, Mateo couldn’t tell.

  "Well," Mateo said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the cavern, "we didn't walk all this way just to look at it."

  He sat on the rocky edge and slid in. The cold was a physical blow, stealing his breath and making him gasp. It was far colder than Cenote Azul or Nah Yah, a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the earth. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to scramble back out, but then the memory of the oppressive jungle heat, the sweat trickling down his back, the dust coating his throat, surged back. He pushed off the edge, submerging himself completely for a second before surfacing with a sputtering sigh.

  The relief was instantaneous and overwhelming. The grime and sweat of the journey dissolved away. The aches in his muscles seemed to lessen, soothed by the profound cold. He floated on his back for a moment, looking up at the distant, vine-fringed opening high above, the source of the dim light.

  "Come on!" he called to Luis, his voice echoing slightly despite the cenote's sound-dampening quality. "It's amazing!"

  Luis hesitated, dipping a toe in and yanking it back with a hiss. "It's freezing!"

  "Better than boiling!" Mateo countered, grinning.

  Taking a deep breath, Luis braced himself and slid in with a yelp that was quickly muffled as he went under. He surfaced moments later, teeth chattering but eyes wide with exhilaration. "Okay, okay! You're right. It's... wow."

  They stayed near the edge at first, paddling gently in the clear shallows over the submerged ledge, the sheer novelty and relief washing away the fatigue. They weren’t laughing loudly or splashing wildly – the profound silence and the slightly intimidating majesty of the place didn't invite that – but the shared experience, the successful end to their challenging quest, brought a sense of quiet camaraderie. They floated, treading water, slowly turning circles to take in the shadowed vastness of the cavern, the hanging roots, the impossible stillness of the dark water stretching out before them. For a few precious moments, the warnings and the mysteries were forgotten, replaced by the simple, shocking pleasure of the cold.

  The initial shock of the cold subsided into a numbing chill, invigorating rather than painful. Mateo swam slowly along the edge of the submerged rock shelf, peering down through the incredibly clear water. Below him, the pale limestone dropped away into blue-black nothingness. Luis paddled closer to the cavern wall, running his hand along the slick, mossy rock just below the waterline.

  “Hey, Mateo,” Luis called, his voice hushed, losing the earlier excitement. “There’s… something on the wall here. Under the water.”

  Mateo swam over. Luis pointed downwards. Following his finger, Mateo could just make out faint lines and shapes on the submerged rock face, partially obscured by a thin layer of greenish algae and the refraction of the water.

  “What is it?” Mateo asked, treading water.

  “I don’t know. Looks like… carvings?”

  Curiosity overriding caution for a moment, Mateo took a deep breath and ducked underwater, pulling himself closer to the wall. He swiped a hand across the rock, clearing some of the slick algae. The cold water stung his eyes, but he could see more clearly now.

  These weren’t the familiar, intricate patterns of ancient Maya carvings he’d seen at ruins like Chichen Itza. These were different. Cruder, yet somehow more unsettling. They depicted elongated, stick-like figures with too many joints, tangled in what looked like struggles with serpentine shapes emerging from dark spirals. Some lines seemed deliberately jagged, conveying a sense of violence or pain. There were strange symbols, too – complex knots and starbursts unlike anything he recognized. They looked wrong.

  He surfaced, gasping from the cold and the slight unease the images provoked. “You see them?”

  Luis nodded, having ducked under briefly himself. His face was pale. “Yeah. Creepy, right? What do you think they are?”

  “I have no idea,” Mateo admitted, rubbing his arms, feeling a chill that wasn't just from the water. He looked along the wall – the carvings seemed to continue intermittently into the shadows. “Maybe… maybe just old warnings? About the water?”

  “Warnings about what?” Luis muttered, looking nervously towards the dark center of the cenote. “No wonder people stay away from here. This place feels…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Mateo understood. It felt watchful, ancient, and not entirely friendly.

  The simple joy of the cold swim evaporated, replaced by the prickling awareness of the cenote’s strangeness, its hidden depths, both literal and figurative. They instinctively paddled a few feet away from the wall, treading water in silence for a moment, the disturbing images lingering in their minds. The vast, silent pool seemed suddenly less like a refuge and more like a gateway to something unknown.

  They floated in silence for a few minutes, the strange carvings occupying their thoughts. The initial exhilaration of the cold water was now tempered with a distinct layer of unease. Luis stayed close to the submerged ledge, occasionally glancing back towards the unsettling images on the wall as if expecting them to writhe. Mateo, however, felt a familiar restlessness stirring beneath his caution. The carvings were creepy, yes, but the vast, unexplored expanse of the cenote still called to him. Perhaps, he reasoned, the water was even clearer further out, away from the algae clinging to the walls. Or perhaps he just needed to move, to swim away from the unnerving proximity of those ancient, disturbing figures.

  “I’m going to swim out a bit further,” Mateo announced, trying to inject confidence into his voice. “See how deep it really is.”

  “Mateo, I don’t know…” Luis started, looking towards the dark center with apprehension. “Maybe we should just stay here? Or get out?”

  “Just for a minute,” Mateo insisted. “Stay near the ledge if you want.”

  He struck out, away from the relative shallows near the entrance and towards the middle of the vast pool. The water here was just as cold, but the profound darkness below felt more immediate. He swam strongly, enjoying the feel of the water against his skin, trying to shake off the unease the carvings had instilled. He paused, treading water, maybe fifty feet from the edge, looking down. He could see nothing below but blackness. He took a breath and dove down, just ten or fifteen feet, peering into the void. Utter darkness met his gaze. As he kicked back towards the surface, he thought he felt… something. A slight, almost imperceptible drift in the water, pulling gently sideways. He dismissed it – probably just an eddy from his own movement.

  He broke the surface, shaking water from his eyes, and took a breath. And then the cenote inhaled.

  It wasn't gradual. It was sudden, decisive, and terrifyingly strong. The gentle drift transformed instantly into a powerful, inexorable current that seized him like a giant hand. It wasn't pulling him straight down, but horizontally, and down, towards the deeper, darker part of the cenote. Panic exploded in his chest. This was it. The pull Don Rafael warned about. The breath of the cenote.

  "Luis!" he choked out, trying to swim against it, but his strokes were useless, like trying to swim up a waterfall. The force was immense, sucking him backwards and downwards. He saw Luis’s distant, horrified face near the ledge, his mouth open in a shout Mateo couldn’t hear over the sudden rush of water in his own ears.

  He flailed, desperation lending him strength, but it made no difference. The current was dragging him faster now, towards the unseen maw of an underwater cave opening hidden in the blackness below. The last thing he saw before being pulled completely under the surface was the dim, distant patch of light marking the entrance high above, shrinking rapidly away.

  The surface vanished above him, replaced by a turmoil of churning water and overwhelming darkness. The roar of the current filled his ears, a deafening rush that drowned out even his own panicked thoughts. He was moving fast, sucked helplessly into the black maw he hadn't even seen. The icy coldness of the water was absolute, stealing the warmth from his limbs, pressing in on him from all sides.

  Instinct took over. He tried to hold his breath, tried to orient himself, but it was impossible. The current tumbled him end over end, scraping him along the unseen rock. His shoulder slammed hard against something solid, sending a jolt of pain through his body. He gasped involuntarily, losing precious air, tasting the cold, mineral-rich water.

  Darkness. Utter and complete. He couldn't tell up from down, couldn't see the rock rushing towards him until he hit it. His knee struck sharply, then his hip glanced off a smoother surface. He was being funneled, dragged through a subterranean artery deep within the earth. The pressure built in his chest, his lungs burning, screaming for air he didn't have. Panic clawed at him, raw and primal.

  Air... need air... Luis... Mamá...

  His head connected with something hard, not a direct blow, but a heavy, jarring impact that sent stars exploding behind his eyelids even in the total blackness. A dull thud seemed to echo through the water, through his own skull. The roaring sound in his ears began to change, swirling, deepening into a heavy drone. The burning in his chest faded, replaced by a strange, floaty numbness. Thoughts became slow, syrupy, disconnected. The panic receded, leaving a vast, empty coldness.

  Cold... so cold... dark...

  The blackness behind his eyes merged with the blackness of the water. The sensation of movement lessened, or perhaps he just stopped feeling it. There was only the cold, the dark, and then, nothing at all.

  …

  “Mateo!”

  The name ripped from Luis’s throat, raw with disbelief. One moment his cousin was treading water fifty feet away, shaking drops from his eyes; the next, he was yanked beneath the surface with shocking speed, disappearing into the dark water as if snatched by an unseen hand.

  Luis stared, frozen for a horrified second, at the spot where Mateo had been. Empty water swirled there for a moment, then settled back into the pool’s unnatural stillness.

  “MATEO!” he screamed again, his voice echoing strangely for a beat before being utterly absorbed by the cavern’s oppressive silence. Panic surged, cold and sharp, eclipsing the chill of the water.

  He swam frantically towards the spot, his strokes clumsy with fear. He reached the area, peering down wildly into the black depths. Nothing. Just impenetrable darkness staring back. He spun around, scanning the entire surface of the pool, hoping against hope Mateo had somehow surfaced elsewhere, further away. But the cenote remained still, vast, and empty, save for himself.

  “Mateo! Answer me!” he yelled, his voice cracking. Silence answered him. Profound, heavy, terrifying silence.

  He waited, treading water, his eyes glued to the spot where his cousin had vanished. Any second now, he told himself. He’s holding his breath, maybe the current pushed him under that ledge, he’ll pop up any second. Seconds stretched into a minute. Then two. The cold water seeped deeper into his bones, no longer refreshing but menacing. The dim light filtering from above seemed to weaken, the shadows deepening.

  Five minutes passed. Luis frantically swam back and forth across the area, diving down a few feet, peering into the gloom until the pressure and the sheer blackness forced him back up, gasping. He called Mateo’s name over and over, each shout swallowed by the void, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breathing and the frantic thumping of his heart.

  The creepy carvings on the wall seemed to leer at him from the periphery. The hanging roots looked like grasping claws. The deep, still water felt like a waiting mouth. He was alone. Utterly alone, deep in the jungle, in a place whispered about in fearful tones, and Mateo was gone. Swallowed.

  Ten minutes. Fifteen. The desperate hope flickered and died, replaced by the icy certainty of horror. Mateo wasn't coming back. The cenote had taken him. The pull Don Rafael warned about, the stories his own grandmother vaguely remembered – they were real.

  A sob escaped Luis’s lips, hot tears instantly cooled by the cenote water on his cheeks. He scrambled back towards the rocky ledge where they’d first entered, hauling himself out of the water, shaking uncontrollably from cold and terror. He crouched on the damp sand, wrapping his arms around himself, staring at the still, black mirror of the water. Mateo was in there, somewhere, dragged into the darkness beneath the rock, and there was nothing Luis could do. Nothing but flee. The thought of climbing back out, of facing that jungle path alone, was terrifying. But the thought of staying here, in this silent, waiting place, was infinitely worse.

  Tears streamed down Luis’s face, mixing with the cenote water dripping from his hair and clothes. He stayed huddled on the rocky bank for another minute, maybe two, every fiber of his being screaming at him to do something, while simultaneously paralyzed by the enormity of what had happened. But the image of Mateo vanishing, the profound, hungry silence of the pool, and the terrifying carvings on the wall finally broke through his paralysis. Staying here was impossible. It felt like waiting to be swallowed himself.

  Help, the thought hammered through his panic. Get help. Mamá Elena… Don Rafael… they’ll know what to do. They have to search. A sliver of desperate hope pierced his terror – Maybe Mateo’s alive, maybe he found an air pocket, maybe he’s just trapped in a cave somewhere down there! That thought, fragile as it was, was the only thing that could propel him forward. He had to get back. Fast.

  With a choked sob, Luis pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt shaky, rubbery with cold and fear. He ignored the slippery rocks and the treacherous footing, scrambling back up the narrow path they had descended, grabbing onto roots and vines with trembling hands, half-climbing, half-falling upwards in his haste. He didn’t look back at the dark water; he couldn’t bear to.

  He burst through the curtain of vines and the thicket of xáanil nal ferns, emerging from the cool, damp air of the cenote’s entrance back into the heavy heat and deeper shadows of the jungle floor. For a dizzying second, he stood gasping, caught between the silent dread behind him and the tangled, oppressive jungle ahead. The path back seemed impossibly long, fraught with the dangers they’d already faced – and who knew what else lurked now, with dusk potentially only an hour or two away?

  But the image of Mateo’s face, the thought of him trapped in the cold darkness below, spurred him on. Resolve hardened his fear. He turned towards the faint trail leading back towards the ruins, back towards the village. He didn’t worry about stealth or saving energy now. He plunged into the undergrowth, moving with reckless speed, driven by pure adrenaline. Branches whipped his face and arms, thorns snagged his soaked clothes, roots threatened to trip him, but he barely noticed. He crashed through the vegetation, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with terror, focused only on the desperate need to get back, to tell someone, to bring help for Mateo. The hidden entrance to Cenote Silencio vanished behind him, swallowed by the indifferent green.

  The jungle that had seemed merely challenging and remote on the way in now felt actively hostile. Every rustle in the undergrowth, every shadow, every twisted vine seemed like a lurking threat. Luis ran, fueled by a primal fear that transcended exhaustion. He crashed through spiderwebs, stumbled over roots he didn't see, picked himself up, and ran again, whimpering softly under his breath. The memory of the cold, dark water and Mateo’s vanishing act was a physical goad, pushing him onward.

  He barely recognized the path. His flight was a blur of tangled green, whipping branches, and the hammering of his own heart. He gave the area where the fissure had opened a wide berth, scrambling through thorny bushes rather than risk getting close to that hidden void, imagining it widening to swallow him too.

  Time lost meaning, measured only in gasping breaths and frantic strides. The sun, unseen through the dense canopy, began its descent, painting the higher leaves in hues of orange and gold, deepening the shadows on the jungle floor into pools of near-darkness. This spurred a fresh wave of panic – he couldn't be caught out here when night fell. Nightfall brought its own predators, both real and imagined.

  He burst into the clearing of the henequen ruins, the crumbling stone walls looking like skeletal ghosts in the fading light. He didn't pause this time, racing past the rusted machinery and through the overgrown foundations, his footsteps echoing unnervingly in the relative quiet of the open space. The jaguar tracks they’d seen earlier flashed in his mind – were they still nearby? Was the creature watching him now? He didn't look, didn't stop, plunging back into the jungle on the far side, back onto the slightly more defined path leading towards the village.

  His adrenaline began to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a raw ache in his lungs. His speed slowed from a reckless sprint to a stumbling, desperate jog. Tears still tracked through the grime on his face, blurring his vision. He tripped, falling hard, scraping his hands and knees on the rocky ground. For a moment, he just lay there, sobbing, overwhelmed by pain, fear, and the crushing weight of what happened to Mateo.

  But the image of his cousin's face, the desperate, impossible hope that Mateo might still be alive, forced him back to his feet. He pushed onward, driven now by sheer will as much as fear. He ignored the throbbing in his limbs, the scratches stinging his skin, the exhaustion clawing at him.

  Finally, finally, through the thinning trees ahead, he saw it – the familiar sight of the back of Se?ora Flores’ house, the edge of the village. The path widened, becoming the dusty track he recognized. He hadn't stopped, hadn't rested, hadn't truly thought beyond the next panicked step, but somehow, he had made it out of the deep jungle. He wasn't safe yet, not truly, but the sight of the village houses, hazy in the late afternoon light, lent him one last burst of energy. He staggered forward, onto the familiar lane, his voice cracking as he opened his mouth to shout, to summon help, to tell them the impossible, horrifying story of Cenote Silencio.

  Luis stumbled out onto the main village lane, collapsing near the shaded bench outside the small, shuttered cantina. His breath hitched in painful sobs, his body trembling violently. A couple of older men, escaping the late afternoon heat with cool drinks inside, looked up at the commotion. Don Rafael, sitting on the bench nursing a small glass of something amber, turned slowly, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to sharp alarm as he took in Luis's state.

  The boy was a wreck. His clothes were torn and still damp in places, smeared with mud and flecked with dried blood from dozens of scratches. His face was pale beneath the grime, eyes wide with a terror that went beyond simple misadventure.

  "Luis! Muchacho, what happened to you?" Don Rafael asked, rising slowly, his old joints protesting. The men inside the cantina came to the doorway, peering out.

  Luis couldn't form coherent sentences at first. He gasped, pointing vaguely back towards the jungle path, tears streaming. "Mateo..." he choked out. "Mateo... Cenote Silencio..."

  The name hung in the suddenly still air. Cenote Silencio. Eyebrows shot up. One of the men crossed himself instinctively. Don Rafael’s face went pale, his usual twinkle replaced by a look of dawning horror.

  "What about Mateo? What happened at that place?" Don Rafael demanded, gripping Luis's shoulder perhaps a bit too tightly.

  "The water..." Luis gasped, trying to draw enough breath. "We were swimming... it was fine... then the water... it pulled him! Pulled him under! Into a cave, maybe! He's gone, Don Rafael! Gone!"

  His voice cracked on the last word, dissolving into racking sobs. By now, others had gathered – women pausing on their way home, children stopping their dusty games. A murmur went through the small crowd – disbelief warring with the undeniable evidence of Luis's terror and the cenote's dark reputation.

  Then, a sharper cry cut through the murmurs. Elena, Mateo’s mother, pushed through the small crowd, her face tight with dread. She must have heard the commotion, heard her son's name linked with that cursed place. She seized Luis by his other shoulder, her grip like iron.

  "Luis! Where is Mateo? What have you done? Where is my son?!" she cried, shaking him slightly.

  Luis could only sob, incoherent now. "He's gone, Elena! The water took him! Cenote Silencio... it pulled him down..."

  Elena stared at him, then her gaze swept towards the jungle, her face crumpling in utter devastation. A low moan escaped her lips. Don Rafael put a trembling hand on her arm. "Elena..."

  "You told him," she whispered fiercely, turning her anguished eyes on Don Rafael. "You told him about that place!"

  Don Rafael flinched, looking stricken. "I warned him... I told him it was dangerous..."

  Practicality began to cut through the shock. One of the village elders pushed forward. "How long ago?" he asked Luis sharply.

  Luis struggled to think through his panic. "An hour? Maybe more? I ran... ran straight back..."

  The elder nodded grimly, looking towards the sun, already dipping towards the horizon, painting the sky orange and purple. "Night will be here soon. We must organize. Torches, ropes... men." He looked around at the assembled villagers. "We have to search. Now."

  A grim determination settled over the men. Despite the cenote's reputation, despite the fading light, Mateo was one of their own. Muttered agreements, calls for equipment, the urgency of action replaced the initial shock. Elena stood frozen, supported by another woman, her eyes fixed on the darkening jungle path, while Don Rafael watched the preparations with a heavy heart, the weight of his old stories suddenly unbearable. The search for Mateo, against the encroaching night and the cenote's dark legend, was about to begin.

  Darkness fell quickly under the jungle canopy as the small search party pushed its way towards Cenote Silencio. Machetes cleared the path where Luis had simply crashed through, while flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows that made the familiar jungle seem like a place of monsters. Luis, wrapped in a dry blanket someone had provided and still trembling, guided them, pointing the way with a shaky hand. Elena walked near the front, her face a stony mask of anguish, refusing to be left behind. Don Rafael followed grimly, his knowledge of the area vital, though his steps were heavy with unspoken guilt. The men carried ropes, more torches, and a grim determination.

  The journey felt longer, more arduous in the dark, each step filled with caution and dread. When they finally reached the hidden entrance, marked by the thick ferns, the air flowing out felt unnaturally cold, extinguishing one of the lead torches with its damp breath. A collective shudder went through the group.

  They descended carefully into the cavern, the torchlight glinting off wet rocks and reflecting poorly off the vast, still surface of the cenote's pool. The silence here was even more profound than Luis had described, broken only by the hiss and crackle of their torches and the echo of their own unsteady breaths.

  "Mateo!" The village elder's voice boomed, trying to project authority over the suffocating quiet. "Mateo, can you hear us?"

  Only silence answered. They spread out along the narrow bank, shining their torches across the black water, probing the edges, searching the submerged ledge near the entrance. They checked behind rock formations, peered into crevices along the waterline. There was no sign. No torn cloth, no footprint Luis hadn't made, nothing to indicate Mateo had ever emerged from the water after vanishing.

  Elena scanned the pool with frantic eyes, her composure finally breaking. "He's down there," she whispered, her voice ragged. "Luis said the water pulled him down. Into a cave."

  All eyes turned towards the dark center of the pool, then back to Luis, who pointed a trembling finger towards the area where Mateo had been swimming. "It pulled him that way," he choked out. "Down. Fast."

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. They were farmers, shopkeepers, laborers – not cave divers. The prospect of entering that cold, black water, of searching for an underwater opening in the darkness with only torches, was terrifying.

  One of the younger, stronger men, named Raul, stepped forward, his face grim. "There's only one way to know," he said, his voice tight. "If there's an opening there... someone has to look. Someone has to dive." He looked towards the elder, then at the still water, swallowing hard. The torchlight flickered across the faces of the search party, illuminating grim resolve mixed with naked fear. The silent cenote waited.

  …

  ...Pain. A dull, throbbing ache centered somewhere behind his eyes. That was the first sensation. Then, cold – a deep, penetrating cold that seemed settled in his bones, yet different from the biting chill of the cenote water. It was the cold of damp stone, of still air. He felt something rough beneath his cheek. Stone. He wasn't floating. He was lying on something hard.

  Sound filtered in next. A low murmur, rhythmic, guttural, unlike any language he knew. And dripping water, echoing softly in what sounded like a large space. There was a faint, flickering light, casting shifting shadows against his closed eyelids. Orange-red light. Warm light.

  He tried to take a breath and coughed, a wet, rattling sound that scraped his raw throat. The murmuring stopped abruptly. He felt a presence nearby, a sense of being watched. Slowly, painfully, Mateo forced his heavy eyelids open, squinting against the unexpected light, trying to make sense of the flickering orange glow and the strange, shadowed figures leaning over him.