The Hacienda

by Isabel Cañas

In the end, it was not the ink-slick shadows and echoing, dissonant laughter of San Isidro that broke me. It was not fear that carved my chest open. It was losing her.

Industry will rise and fall, men will scorch the earth and slaughter one another for emperors or republics, but they will always want drink.

Fate had been unkind to me, but sometimes, its pettiness worked in my favor.

Women like her thought themselves sage when doling out advice to young brides, so I steered the conversation away from dead women and my complexion by asking her empty questions regarding marriage,

She lived well without marrying, an enviable privilege in wartime and peace alike.

I would make it mine, I would make it my home. My safe haven.

San Isidro was freedom. San Isidro was mine. But San Isidro was also trying to break me, and I did not doubt the force of its will.

Any building of that age has memories down to its bones. But its voices are different now. One dominates the rest; its intent is unclear to me.

“Doctors aren’t witches,” he said. “Can’t fix broken witches.”