No one could approach him without getting hurt. A wild, imposing, and violent horse, he was destined for slaughter until, out of nowhere, a lonely, abandoned girl appeared, invisible to everyone. But what she did left the entire town speechless, and the end of this story changed their destinies forever. “Get out of here, brat!” the butcher shouted, throwing a dirty rag at her, which she narrowly dodged. Isabela ran with the piece of bread in her hands, without looking back.

Her bare feet tapped on the stones of the alley as the adults’ laughter faded behind the walls. She had no idea what time it was or how long it had been since she’d last eaten. She only knew one thing: she couldn’t stay in one place for long. She crossed the main square and slipped into the bushes behind the stables by the ravine. There, behind the wooden corral where no one could see her, she curled up with her legs drawn up to her chest.

The bread was stale, but it didn’t matter. She ate it slowly, watching the movements on the other side of the fence. Tormenta was restless again. The black horse whinnied loudly, its hooves pounding the ground. It was bigger than the others, darker, wilder. Every time one of the men tried to approach, the animal reared up menacingly. One of them had fallen last week. He’d broken his arm. Since then, no one had entered the corral without a stick.

Isabela saw everything. She always did. Day after day, from her hidden corner among the dry grass and broken boards, she followed the animal’s every move. She was fascinated by its strength, but even more so by the air of loneliness that seemed to envelop it. It wasn’t rage he felt, it was something else, perhaps fear or distrust, the same distrust she had learned to use as a shield. A door slammed, interrupting her thoughts. Don Ernesto, the ranch owner, came out of the office at the back.

He walked with a firm step, flanked by two workers. One carried a folder, the other a thick rope. “We can’t take any more risks,” Don Ernesto said without raising his voice. “This animal is no good. He’s cursed or simply crazy. We’ll put him down on Monday.” Isabel felt a knot in her stomach. “Are you sure, boss?” one of the farmhands asked. “We could sell him for a low price. Maybe someone will want him.” “And who’s going to want a walking time bomb?” Don Ernesto grunted.

It was decided. The men walked away. Isabela didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her fingers closed tightly on the fabric of her threadbare dress. The word sacrifice echoed in her head like a chilly thud. Tormenta was still agitated, lashing the ground with foam on his snout, his gaze lost somewhere in the sky. Isabela watched him for a long time until her eyes began to burn. Then, without thinking, she stood up, slipped into the bushes, and disappeared.

That night the ranch was asleep, the lights were off, the ranch hands snored in the cabin, and the wind stirred the dry branches of the eucalyptus tree that stood guard over the gate. Isabela waited until everything was quiet. Then she crossed the street and slipped through the gap she knew between the loose planks of the corral. She didn’t have a flashlight; she didn’t need one. The moonlight was enough. Tormenta saw her right away. She whinnied. She moved with force. Her hooves struck the ground.

The girl stopped about three meters away from him, not moving any closer. She said nothing. She just sat down; she didn’t run away, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch him. She just lowered her head and waited. The horse snorted loudly, but didn’t move closer or farther away. He was breathing rapidly, nervously, as if he didn’t understand what this small creature was doing in his space. She slowly raised her gaze, and their eyes met. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Then the animal turned away.

 

She lowered her head and lay down on the ground, turning her back to him. Isabela didn’t smile, didn’t cry, she just lay there, taking deep breaths. When the sky began to clear, she slowly got up, left the way she had come in, and disappeared again into the bushes. She said nothing, but that night something changed. The sun was barely peeking over the mountains when the first rays illuminated the corral. Isabela was no longer there. No one noticed her absence. No one knew she had been there, and yet, something felt different.

Tormenta lay in a corner of the corral, head down and eyes half-closed. He wasn’t moving like usual. He wasn’t snorting or kicking at the fences. The stable boys, used to his violent energy from dawn onward, stopped to watch him suspiciously. “What’s wrong with him?” asked Ramón, the foreman, scratching his beard. “I don’t know, but I don’t like him,” another replied, placing a sack of oats on the wheel of a wheelbarrow. “He looks strange, quiet, like he’s sick.”

Don Ernesto arrived shortly after, wearing his wide-brimmed hat and walking with his usual firm stride. As always, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes were tired. Upon seeing him, the men snapped to attention, and one of them went to open the corral gate for him. “And this one,” Don Ernesto murmured, seeing the horse lying down. “This is how he is this morning, boss,” Ramón replied. “He hasn’t moved a muscle. He didn’t even want the fodder.” Don Ernesto frowned even more. He entered the corral cautiously, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the animal.

He took a few steps closer. Tormenta raised her head at the sound of him, but made no move to get up. She just looked at him. Her ears weren’t pinned back. Her muscles, once taut as ropes, now seemed soft and relaxed. “What if she’s tired of fighting?” one of the farmhands said from the fence. “Maybe she’s finally understood.” Don Ernesto shook his head. Horses like this don’t understand. They just wait for the moment to unleash their fury. He bent down, scooped up a handful of damp earth, and let it fall between his fingers.

“I’ve made my decision,” he added, standing up. “I’m not taking any more risks. This animal has to go.” The men didn’t respond. They all knew what going meant. “Call the vet,” he ordered. “I want him there when you do it. I don’t want any mistakes. Make it quick.” Ramón nodded silently and left without another word. That day, rumors spread like wildfire through the ranch walls. Some said Tormenta was bewitched; others swore he was the son of a demon.

No one could remember ever seeing an animal so fierce, so strong, and so impossible to tame. They had tried everything. They brought him from a prestigious breeding farm with papers, lineage, and promises of greatness. But from the time he was a colt, he showed signs of rebellion. He wouldn’t accept saddles, bridles, or human hands. The best horse trainers from the north came and went, humiliated, bruised, defeated. And yet, that morning he stood still. No one knew why. No one, except a little girl hidden among the bushes on the other side of the stable, watching him as she did every day, her face covered in dust and her eyes wide, as if she could see something no one else could.

Isabela didn’t eat that day, didn’t look for bread, didn’t rummage through the market’s trash cans; she just stayed there in her corner, watching. The night before hadn’t been a dream. She had been with him. She saw him up close, felt his heavy breathing, his animal heat, his contained strength, and for a moment she felt no fear. Tormenta was like her: wild, broken, used to everyone looking at him with suspicion. No one approached him without intending to dominate or punish him, unlike her, who only received shouts or shoves.

That’s why she didn’t understand the feeling in her chest when she saw him like that, lying down, not fighting back. It was as if something inside him had also given up, or perhaps he was just resting. “Don’t let them take your strength,” she whispered from her hiding place. “I know how it feels.” That afternoon, when everyone went to eat, Isabela slipped back into the corral. She knew it was forbidden. She knew that if they discovered her, they wouldn’t let her return, but she couldn’t just stand idly by.

Tormenta was standing this time by a lamppost. She turned her head as she saw her enter. She didn’t move. The girl walked slowly, step by step, barefoot on the dust. Her feet made no sound, her dress billowing in the wind. When she was a few feet away, she stopped. “Hello,” she said almost inaudibly. “Do you remember me?” The horse snorted as if in response. Not aggressively, not frightened. Isabela sat down again just as she had the night before. She didn’t try to touch him, she just looked at him.

And so the minutes passed. She remained silent, he stood watching, until Ramón appeared on the other side of the fence and let out a curse. “What are you doing there, you little brat?” he shouted. “Get out right now!” Tormenta reared up, whinnying loudly. Isabela froze. Ramón opened the corral gate and ran toward her, grabbing her arm. “Are you crazy or what? That animal could kill you.” Isabela tried to break free, but he dragged her outside without a second thought. The other farmhands came closer, hearing the commotion.

Don Ernesto came out of the office. “What happened?” “We found her inside the corral with the colt,” Ramón shouted. “She was sitting there as if it were hers.” Don Ernesto stared at the girl. Isabela lowered her head, her face dirty and her eyes shining. “You were the one who’s been coming in every night.” Isabela didn’t answer. Don Ernesto sighed, took off his hat, and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Leave her alone, don’t touch her anymore.” The farmhands looked at each other, confused.

“Are you going to let her stay?” Ramón asked. “For now,” the boss replied. “I want to know what made that animal stop being a wild beast. If she has anything to do with it, we’re going to find out.” And without another word, he turned and went back to his office. Isabela, still trembling, felt for the first time that someone hadn’t actually thrown her out. Isabela said nothing, not when Ramón roughly let her go, nor when the farmhands walked away muttering, giving her dirty looks, as if she were a plague they didn’t know how to get rid of.

Even when Don Ernesto allowed her to stay, without saying where, offering nothing more than a gesture of tolerance, she remained still beside the corral, face down, arms wrapped around her knees. The sun was already setting behind the hills, the air growing colder and thinner. The horses snorted as the workers closed the gates and began cleaning the last water troughs. In the distance, the sharp crowing of a rooster strayed from its place cut through the silence with a solitary echo.

No one looked at her again. No one offered her bread, water, or even a word. And in Isabela’s world, that was normal. Night fell like a curtain of shadow, soft but relentless. The lanterns flickered over the stables, and a couple of crickets chirped from the dry grass. Isabela remained seated against the fence, shivering from the cold, from uncertainty, from something she didn’t understand. Tormenta stood at the far end of the corral. She seemed to be watching her. She didn’t come closer, but she didn’t go away either.

From her corner, the girl could see the faint gleam in his eyes, reflecting the meager moonlight. She had listened to Don Ernesto’s words attentively. It hadn’t been an invitation, not a promise, just a warning wrapped in curiosity. “I want to know if you have anything to do with this.” But what stuck with her most was what she’d overheard earlier, while hiding among the hay bales during her siesta. The veterinarian would come on Monday; everything was already arranged.

Tormenta would be slaughtered at dawn. Only two nights remained. This was the first. Isabel swallowed. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. She had learned long ago that tears were useless when there was no one to hear them. She got up slowly. Her numb legs tingled. She walked to the back of the corral, where the fence had a gap between the planks. She knew how to get through; she had done it before and would do it again. She slipped through the wood like a shadow.

Her bare feet made no sound as they touched the warm earth. The storm didn’t move. She advanced slowly until she was about 5 meters away. She didn’t dare get any closer. She sat on the ground as before, said nothing, just closed her eyes and waited. The wind blew through the trees, making the dry leaves that accumulated along the fences crunch. The ranch was asleep, the farmhands snored in their rooms, the neighbor’s dogs barked at nothing.

And there, in the middle of the corral, a girl and a horse shared the same space, the same silence. Tormenta lowered his head slowly, breathing heavily. His ribs stood out with each inhalation. Flies buzzed around him, but he paid them no mind. Minutes passed, minutes that felt like hours. Isabela didn’t move. Her body trembled, but not from fear. It was something deeper, something like sadness or farewell. “I don’t want you to die,” he finally whispered. “What they’re going to do to you isn’t right.” Tormenta turned his head.

Her right ear barely twitched. “I know how it feels,” she continued. “To be unwanted, to be seen only as a problem, as something easier to make disappear.” She rubbed her arms, feigning strength, but her voice trembled. “Sometimes I feel like running away and never coming back, but I don’t know where to go. I have nowhere to go.” She remained silent. She waited for a sign, though she didn’t know what it was. And then something shifted. Tormenta took a step forward, just one, but it was enough.

Isabela’s heart raced, not from fear, but from surprise, from hope, from something she couldn’t put into words. “Are you tired too?” she asked. The horse stopped, blinked slowly, and took a deep breath. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, “and I don’t want you to hurt me.” She stretched out a hand slowly, without getting up. She wasn’t trying to touch him, just to show him that she was there, open, unarmed. Tormenta didn’t come any closer, but he didn’t run away either. After a while, Isabela lowered her arm and lay on her side on the ground, her head resting on her bent arm.

She had no blanket or pillow, only that dusty corner that was beginning to feel safe. And there, under the gaze of the horse everyone feared, she closed her eyes. She didn’t sleep completely, but she rested. When the sky began to lighten, Isabela slowly got up. Her body ached from the position, from the cold, from hunger. Tormenta was still in the same place, watchful, calm. She gave him one last look before leaving, a silent but profound look. She crossed back through the gap in the fence and slipped away into the bushes.

No one saw her leave. But that morning something had changed. It wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the men, it was the horse. And she, too. That same afternoon, when the sun dipped behind the hills again, Isabela waited in her usual corner, right behind the pile of hay bales she used as a hiding place. No one was looking for her, no one was asking about her. That suited her best. At the ranch, everything continued as usual. The ranch hands worked listlessly, the horses snorted in their corrals, and Tormenta—well, Tormenta seemed different.

It wasn’t something they could easily explain, but Ramón noticed it first. “Did you notice he’s not rolling against the fence anymore?” he murmured to another worker as they loaded sacks of oats. “Yeah, he didn’t bite anyone yesterday either. And he’s been eating for two days straight without knocking over the feeder.” The other man shrugged. Maybe he’d gotten over his madness, but it wasn’t madness or exhaustion. It was something deeper, something that grew in the nighttime silence, right when the ranch slept and no one was watching.

That night, like the others, Isabela returned to the corral. She crossed the gap in the fence barefoot, her dress dirty, her heart pounding, not from fear, but from something closer to excitement, to belonging. Tormenta was awake, waiting for her. She could feel it. She sat in her usual spot, not too far, not too close. “Hello, big guy,” she whispered softly. “Today I sat under a tree and dreamed I had a room all to myself, a bed with sheets and a window.”

Tormenta raised his head, twitched an ear attentively, but then I woke up because a dog barked in my face, and well, no, it wasn’t my room. He spoke as if he understood, as if he could gather his words with his hooves and store them in his mane. You do that too, dreaming things you’ve never had. The horse breathed heavily, didn’t move, but didn’t look away. They told me they’re going to put you down. Do you know what that is?

Isabela lowered her gaze, her hands clasped on her bony legs. That’s when they decide you’re no longer useful, that you’re a burden, that it’s better you’re gone. Silence. Then a brief whinny, not of fury, almost in response. But I don’t believe that about you. I think you’re just hurting like me. The days passed, and with them, the nights became a ritual. Isabela always returned after everything had gone dark. Sometimes she brought stale bread that she didn’t eat.

She would leave it nearby in case Tormenta smelled it. Other times she would just talk. She would tell him stories she didn’t know if they were hers or made up. An ice cream that melted quickly, a blue bicycle, a woman’s voice singing while she swept the floor. Tormenta began to come closer. Sometimes he would take three steps, sometimes only one, but he always lowered his head. He never touched her, but he sniffed the air near her. They would stay like that, two broken creatures, learning to trust. Isabela never tried to control him or pet him.

Their bond was one of respect, not possession. And no one on the entire ranch knew it. Until one night, someone saw her. Ramón had forgotten his knife in the barn. Cursing under his breath, he walked toward the corral with a rosewood lantern. It was almost 11. As he approached, he noticed movement in the darkness. He stopped. Among the shadows, he made out Storm’s figure and another, smaller one, crouching right in front of him. “What the hell?” he muttered. He walked faster, raising the lantern.

“Hey, who’s there?” The horse whinnied, reared up, and took two steps back. Isabela froze. She didn’t have time to run. Ramón grabbed her arm tightly. “You again, brat. I told you not to come back here.” He dragged her roughly out of the corral. Isabela didn’t scream, didn’t cry, she just pressed her lips together. “I’m going to talk to the boss. This is too much.” The commotion woke two more farmhands. The barn lights came on. Storm was pounding the ground with fury.

Don Ernesto appeared in his bathrobe, his hair disheveled and his voice hoarser than usual. “What’s going on now?” The scrawny one again. She was inside the corral talking to the colt as if it were her pet. Don Ernesto approached, staring intently at Isabela. This time she didn’t meet his gaze; she kept her eyes downcast, her body hunched. “It’s true.” She nodded without saying a word. “How many nights have you been doing this?” “Five,” she barely whispered. Ramón snorted furiously. “And you let her stay.”

“He’s going to kill us all.” Don Ernesto didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the corral. Tormenta was still restless, snorting, but not violent. There was something in the way she moved that was no longer threatening, but alert, as if she were guarding something. “Did the horse hurt you?” the boss asked. Isabel shook her head. “And did you hurt him?” “No, sir.” Don Ernesto sighed. “Take her to the empty room in the warehouse. He ordered Ramón to sleep there tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“She’s going to let her stay. I said we’ll talk tomorrow,” she repeated firmly. Ramón gritted his teeth, but didn’t argue. As they led her away, Isabela cast one last glance at the corral. Tormenta was watching her too. And for the first time, the girl smiled. Barely a gesture, but it was real. The storage room was dark, smelling of old wood and tool grease. It had no bed or blankets, just a thin mattress on the floor and a small window with dirty glass.

Ramón threw the lamp onto a box and slammed the door. “If it were up to me, you’d be sleeping outside with the rats,” he muttered before leaving. Isabela didn’t answer. She stood in the middle of the room, hugging herself. The silence was as heavy as the early morning chill. She didn’t cry; she didn’t have the strength. But something inside her throbbed stronger than fear—rage, not for herself, but for the storm. She curled up on the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut.

Outside, the horse’s hooves struck the ground like distant echoes. They weren’t sounds of fury, but of unease, as if the horse knew she was no longer there. The next morning, Don Ernesto left early, stood in front of the corral with his hat pulled low and his arms crossed. Ramón was already waiting, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. “And?” the boss asked. “She didn’t sleep at all, neither she nor the colt,” Ramón replied. “She spent the whole night pacing, whinnying, close to the fence.”

Don Ernesto observed the animal. Tormenta’s eyes were red with exhaustion, but he wasn’t agitated; on the contrary, he seemed disoriented. “Since when have you seen that animal miss someone?” he said quietly. Ramón snorted. “You’re not going to tell me you’re thinking of letting her stay.” “I’m thinking,” Don Ernesto interrupted, “that something’s going on and no one has been able to explain it.” He was silent for a moment, then turned toward the storeroom. “Bring her here.” Minutes later, Isabela entered the yard, her face dirty and her dress even more torn than the day before.

She walked slowly, her hands clasped in front of her, as if awaiting inevitable punishment. “Sit down,” Don Ernesto ordered, pointing to a wooden box. She obeyed without looking up. “I need you to tell me the whole truth. What do you do with the colt?” Isabela hesitated before answering. “I just talk to him,” she finally said. “Since when?” “Since the first day I knew they were going to kill him.” Don Ernesto watched her intently. “And how come he hasn’t done anything to you?” Isabela looked up for the first time.

Her eyes were large, dark, but serene. Because she wasn’t afraid of me, and I wasn’t afraid of her. Ramón snorted behind the boss. This is madness. She’s going to end up trampled on. We can’t let that girl roam free on the ranch. Don Ernesto thought for a few seconds, then turned to Ramón. You’re going to watch her every step of the way. She’s not going near the colt without you being there. Ramón opened his mouth to protest, but the boss stopped him with his hand.

I’m not asking for your opinion, I’m giving you an order. Then he looked at the girl, and if you do one thing out of line, you’re out. Understood? Isabela nodded silently. Don Ernesto walked away without another word, leaving behind the dry echo of his boots on the ground. From that day on, the routine changed. Isabela no longer entered the corral through the gap in the fence. Now she went through the main gate, always accompanied by Ramón or one of the other farmhands.

No one spoke to her, no one offered her bread, water, or a kind word. But at least they didn’t chase her away. Every afternoon, after the work was done, she was allowed to spend one hour in the storm, exactly one hour, not a minute more. During that time, she sat in her usual spot, crossed her legs, and spoke to herself as if no one else were there. “Today I saw a bird with a broken wing. I thought of you.” Storm no longer kept her distance.

He walked slowly toward her, sniffed her, stopped a meter away, and stood there calmly. Sometimes he lowered his head, sometimes he whinnied softly, as if answering. Ramón, from the fence, clenched his teeth and held his arms tight. He didn’t understand anything. What he saw made his stomach churn. How was it possible that a skinny, dirty little girl could achieve what not even the best horse trainer had managed? But not everyone was upset. One afternoon, as the girl left the corral, Don Ernesto’s wife saw her from the porch.

She was a tall woman with a serious face who rarely spoke to the farmhands. She observed Isabela with a thoughtful expression. Then she turned to her husband. “Is she the girl with the horse?” Don Ernesto nodded without taking his eyes off the field. “I don’t know how she does it. Sometimes broken things recognize broken things,” the woman said. “And they understand each other without words.” He glanced at her sideways. “Don’t start with your poetry. It’s not poetry, it’s the truth.” They fell silent. From the corral, they could hear the soft whistling of a storm.

The girl, now on the other side of the fence, turned for a moment and smiled at her. That night Isabela returned to the storage room. It wasn’t warm or comfortable, but she no longer slept in fear. Something in her chest was beginning to change, a spark, a promise. And whether she knew it or not, that horse felt it too. The corral was silent. Only the distant buzz of a fly and the faint creaking of the wood under the weight of the bodies leaning against the fence could be heard.

Six men watched without saying a word. No one moved, no one smoked. Even the horses in the nearby stables seemed to be holding their breath. Isabela sat in her usual spot, right in the same circle of earth where she had spent so many nights in secret. Her thin knees poked out from under her patched dress, and her dusty hands rested in her lap. A few feet away, Tormenta stood with her head bowed, her dark mane hanging like a veil over her eyes.

The murmurs began as soon as she settled in. Look at her as if nothing happened. That animal killed two men, and she’s sitting there like a dog. This isn’t normal. Ramón dismissed them with a gesture, but his own face was a picture of disbelief. Tormenta twitched an ear, turned slightly. Then, with slow steps, she began to approach. Isabela didn’t look directly at him. She kept her gaze soft, not intrusive, as if respecting his space, his rhythm, his pain. When the horse was a meter away, she stretched out her arm very slowly, like someone daring to touch a dream.

And Tormenta didn’t back down; on the contrary, she took another step. Isabela grazed his neck with her fingertips, barely a touch, a tremor of skin against skin. And he remained still, lowering his head. The farmhands murmured again, this time in hushed tones, with a mixture of astonishment and distrust. “It can’t be, she’s letting him. That colt has never let anyone touch him like that.” Isabela placed her entire palm on his neck. Then she closed her eyes.

Storm let out a long, almost human sigh. She shuddered slightly and then, without warning, sat back on her hind legs, curling her body as if finally accepting a truce. No one could believe it. Ramón spat on the ground, as if that could undo what he had just seen. What kind of witchcraft is this? Don Ernesto, who was watching from the shadow of the eaves, remained silent. He simply crossed his arms, still watching. The routine changed again. It was no longer a matter of tolerating her; now it was about observing her.

Every afternoon, the men of the ranch would interrupt their work for a few minutes just to watch her. It was like a free show that no one wanted to miss. Isabela would arrive silently, walking barefoot through the dust. She would enter the corral under everyone’s gaze and sit facing Tormenta as if they were old friends. Sometimes she would speak to him, sometimes not; sometimes she would just look at him, and he would respond with soft snorts or quiet movements. On one occasion, Tormenta even lay down beside her, rested his muzzle on the ground, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

That day the farmhands didn’t dare speak. They left one by one, as if witnessing it were too intimate, almost sacred. But not everyone accepted it easily. “This isn’t natural,” Ramón said one night while they were having dinner at the big house. “That animal is bewitched. That girl put something strange in its head.” “And what do you propose?” Don Ernesto asked wearily. “That we get rid of her. That we send her far away before this ends badly?” The boss stared at him.

Since she’s been here, the animal hasn’t hurt anyone. It eats, sleeps, doesn’t kick the fences. Do you want to risk that? Ramón gritted his teeth. We don’t need her. We can train the colt ourselves. Don Ernesto sighed and stood up from the table. Try it. Then Ramón stood still. How? Tomorrow. Go into the corral by yourself, without ropes, without whips. Get it to come closer, get it to let you touch it. If you can, the girl will leave. Ramón swallowed hard. Don Ernesto left the room without looking back.

The next morning, everyone was gathered earlier than usual. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and the farmhands were already lined up around the corral. Isabela didn’t understand what was happening. She stood by the fence, her face stained and her feet cold. Tormenta shifted restlessly, as if sensing that something was wrong. “You’re not going in today,” Ramón said, approaching the girl. She looked at him, puzzled. “The boss wants us to try without you.” Isabela said nothing.

She clung to one of the fence boards as the man strode through the corral gate. Tormenta saw him immediately. She tensed. Her whole body went on alert. Ears back, hooves scraping the ground. Ramón raised a hand. “Calm down, calm down.” He took another step. The horse whinnied loudly, raising dust, turned around, and kicked in the air. Isabela let out a stifled cry. Don Ernesto raised his hand, but said nothing.

He watched. Ramón tried to approach from the side. Tormenta kicked again. Fierce, violent. “Get out of there!” one of the ranch hands shouted. “He’s going to kill you!” Ramón backed away abruptly and left the corral, sweating, his face red with rage and shame. “That animal is crazy,” he spat. “He’s bewitched.” Don Ernesto turned to Isabela. “You have 10 minutes. Go inside.” She obeyed without a word. She walked toward Tormenta as she did every day, and as if the whole world stopped, the horse calmed instantly, lowered his head, came to her, and rested his muzzle on her shoulder.

A heavy silence enveloped the corral, and then someone among the ranch hands whispered, “That girl saved him, and no one dared deny it. Here comes the little witch with the colt!” one of the ranch hands shouted, letting out a harsh laugh as he threw a handful of hay in Isabela’s direction. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cover her face, didn’t stop. She continued walking slowly, head down, arms crossed over her chest. The hay fell at her feet as if it weren’t there.

“They say she whispers spells in its ear,” another added, “and that the animal falls asleep like a bewitched baby.” “Watch out, Ramón, you might turn into a frog,” one more joked, provoking more laughter. Ramón didn’t laugh; he just watched the girl as she walked past them, her lips pressed tightly together and her back straight. Despite everything, there was a firmness about her that was beginning to unsettle him, as if her silence weighed more than the shouts. “Hey, Isabela!” one of them yelled mockingly.

“Do you cast spells on her with saliva or dust from broken shoes?” More laughter, more jeers. She didn’t answer. She continued toward the corral. Since the connection with Storm had become obvious to everyone, the attention on the ranch had doubled. Some looked at her with curiosity, others with distrust, but among the ranch hands, mockery prevailed. Perhaps it was the discomfort of seeing that a ragged, orphaned girl had achieved what they couldn’t. Perhaps it was the need to feel superior to someone, even if she was a creature who could barely speak.

Or perhaps it was pure envy, because since Isabela arrived, the colt had ceased to be a problem and had become a mystery. A mystery no one understood, but that everyone observed. That day, like every afternoon, Isabela crossed the corral while the men pretended to continue working. Tormenta was waiting for her. As always, she no longer had to look for him. He approached on his own, as if his body responded to her presence before any other stimulus. “Hello, big guy,” she whispered, stroking his neck.

“They called me a witch today.” The horse snorted again, shaking his head from side to side as if trying to shake off the comment. “Don’t worry, it didn’t hurt, at least not as much as before.” She sat down beside him. Tormenta lay down slowly, tucking her legs under her body and squinting. The sun was beginning to set, painting the animal’s black coat gold, giving it an almost liquid sheen. Isabela rested her head on his back, closing her eyes.

You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m trash. From the fence, Ramón watched them with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. His arms were crossed and his jaw was clenched. He didn’t understand how it had come to this. How could an untamed colt surrender so easily to a little girl? “You’re going to tell the boss, aren’t you?” one of the ranch hands asked him in a low voice. “Tell him this isn’t right, that there’s something strange about that kid, something that doesn’t add up.”

Ramón frowned. He’d been thinking about the same thing for days, but he didn’t know how to explain it without sounding ridiculous. “It’s not normal,” he muttered. “Horses don’t change like that. Not without training, not without control.” “But there it is,” the other man said. “Look how he’s got him wrapped around his little finger. It’s not natural.” And therein lay the real fear: that what they were seeing couldn’t be explained by what they knew, that there was something stronger than force, something that couldn’t be imposed with reins or spurs.

In the ranch kitchen, Don Ernesto’s wife was preparing tea when she heard the murmurs of the ranch hands from the veranda. She couldn’t hear everything clearly, but she managed to make out a few words: witch, girl, weirdo, danger. She sighed and set the teapot down on the table. “They’re cowards,” she muttered to herself. “They’re afraid of a girl because they can’t control what they don’t understand.” That afternoon, she went down to the corral without warning. Isabela saw her approaching, but didn’t move. She remained seated beside Tormenta, gently stroking her back.

The woman stopped on the other side of the fence. “How are you?” Isabela looked up in surprise. No one, except Don Ernesto, had spoken to her in days. “Fine,” she answered softly. “You like being with him.” The girl nodded. The woman observed her for a moment, then smiled gently. “You have something special. Not like a witch, as those fools say, but something special in your soul.” Isabela lowered her head uncomfortably. “Don’t be ashamed,” the woman continued. “What you do isn’t a weakness, it’s a gift.”

Tormenta raised her head and snorted as if in agreement. The woman looked at him and was moved. It had been years since she’d seen such a devoted horse or such a brave girl. Then she left without another word. But that gesture, that simple conversation, was enough to soften something inside Isabela—a kind word, a clear gaze. Sometimes that was all it took. That night, back in her small room in the warehouse, Isabela lay down on the mattress with a different feeling.

It wasn’t joy, but neither was it sadness. It was a kind of truce. She thought of the laughter, the hurled anger, the cruel words, and then she thought of the woman’s soft voice, her stormy gaze, the way he rested his head in her lap, without fear, and she understood that even if she couldn’t change the adult world, she could change her own. In that corner of land where only the two of them existed, an invisible girl and a horse who, like her, was learning to trust again.

The day dawned with a soft mist covering the fields. The sounds of the ranch seemed muffled, as if the whole earth were holding its breath. Isabela had gotten up before everyone, as always, and was already sitting next to Tormenta, gently stroking his neck, while whispering some made-up story about horses that could fly. Don Ernesto watched her from afar, leaning against the corral railing, sipping his coffee. He didn’t say it, but since the girl had arrived, the ranch was different, quieter, more orderly.

Even the farmhands worked more carefully, not out of fear of him, but because of something they couldn’t name, a kind of respect that Isabela’s presence unwittingly commanded. But that calm didn’t last long. Around noon, an old car arrived, kicking up dust on the main road. The dogs began to bark. The workers, curious, put down their tools and looked toward the entrance. Don Ernesto frowned. Hardly anyone came to the ranch unannounced. A woman got out of the driver’s seat wearing cheap sandals, tight pants, and a garish blouse that didn’t match anything.

She wore dark glasses and her hair was haphazardly pulled back. She walked quickly, as if in a hurry to finish something she didn’t want to do. “Where is my daughter?” she asked the first farmhand she encountered. The man looked at her, puzzled. “Excuse me, my daughter’s name is Isabela. I was told she’s here.” The news reached Don Ernesto in less than a minute. He walked toward her with a determined stride, removing his hat. “I am her mother. I’ve come for the girl.” There was no emotion in her voice.

No surprise, just a feigned confidence like someone claiming a lost package at the post office. “And how did you know she was here?” the boss asked. “A friend told me she saw her in town. She said she’s living with you now, taking care of a horse. So I came.” “After how long?” “That doesn’t matter. She’s my daughter.” Don Ernesto looked at her silently. There were no tears, no remorse, no questions about the girl’s well-being on his face, only an impatient desire to take her away.

Isabela learned from Ramón. “They came looking for you,” he said curtly. She blinked, confused. “Who?” “Your mother.” The word hit her like a bucket of ice water. The girl froze. Her heart began to beat faster, but not with joy. It was a confusing mix of fear, blurred memories, and a hope that no longer existed. “Where is she?” “Talking to the boss.” Isabela stood up slowly. Tormenta snorted restlessly. She stroked him one last time and walked away with unsteady steps.

She found her by the main house, leaning against one of the porch columns, smoking a cheap cigarette. “Oh, look at her!” the woman said when she saw her. “You’re thinner than before.” Isabela didn’t answer. Her mother approached her and lifted her chin with two fingers. “And those clothes? Don’t they give you anything better here?” The girl gently pulled away, lowering her gaze. Don Ernesto watched from a few steps behind with his arms crossed. “Where have you been all this time?”

Isabela asked in a very low voice. The woman shrugged. Things, problems, but I’m back now. See? Let’s go home. Which home? Don’t start with questions, Isabela. You’re just a child. Why did you come back now? The woman pressed her lips together. She glanced sideways at Don Ernesto, then at the workers who were peering out curiously from a distance. Are you becoming famous? No, everyone’s talking about you. They even said on the town radio that a girl tamed a wild horse.

“My daughter, my blood,” he smiled. But it was a hollow smile, without any real feeling. Isabela took a step back. “I don’t want to go with you.” The woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly. You don’t get to decide. I’m your mother.” Don Ernesto then intervened legally, that’s true, but something doesn’t add up here. He’s saying I’m an imposter. I’m saying that a mother who abandons her daughter for months doesn’t come back like this, without a single apology, without questions, without even touching her. The woman glared at him.

You don’t know anything. Stay out of it, be enough. And if you want to take her, you’ll have to prove you can take care of her. Not just show up and say yes. Isabela said nothing. She just stared at them both as if the scene weren’t real, as if she weren’t the child in dispute. The woman angrily stubbed out her cigarette. I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’d better hand her over to me. She turned and left without saying goodbye. She got into her car and disappeared down the road, leaving behind a trail of dust and tension.

That night Isabela didn’t go to the corral. She sat in the doorway of the warehouse, her legs drawn up and her head in her arms. Tormenta whinnied twice as if calling her, but she didn’t move. Inside her, she felt a jumble of emotions she couldn’t name, a mixture of wounded hope, fear, anger, and a sadness so deep it seemed bottomless. Don Ernesto’s wife’s soft voice pulled her from her reverie. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to,” she said, placing a folded blanket beside her.

“You can have a home here too.” Isabela didn’t answer, but for the first time in many nights, she allowed herself to cry silently, invisibly, as she had been all her life. Tormenta kicked the ground furiously, raising a cloud of dust that covered the wooden fence. His eyes were bloodshot with nervousness, his ears pinned back, and his neck tense like a rope about to snap. The farmhands were already eyeing him askance with that old fear they thought they had overcome, muttering under their breath as they pretended to go about their tasks.

“She’s back to her old ways again,” one of them said. “For the last two days, she won’t even let anyone near her. It’s no coincidence,” another added. The girl hasn’t returned to the corral. Ramón listened to them in silence, standing by the feeder. The animal hadn’t touched her oats, not a single bite. She just paced in circles, whinnying, snorting, gnawing at the wood with the desperation of a caged beast. “She’s dying without her,” the foreman murmured, as if he were fading from within. Isabela hadn’t left the barn in two days.

The blanket was still folded in the same corner where Don Ernesto’s wife had left it. The little girl spent hours sitting by the window, hugging her knees, her head buried in her arms. She barely ate and didn’t speak to anyone. The shock of her mother’s return had been harder than she had imagined. It wasn’t just fear; it was something deeper, an old wound reopening, as if seeing her had brought back everything she had tried to forget, all at once, without warning.

The nights on the street, the hunger, the voices that said, “Don’t bother her, don’t touch her, it’s not my problem.” And now the threat of returning to her, to the woman who hadn’t looked for her in months, who hadn’t called, who hadn’t asked if she was okay, if she’d eaten, if she’d cried, who only came when others started talking about her. Since her mother’s arrival, Isabela avoided the corral. She didn’t want to see Tormenta, didn’t want her to see her like this, broken, small, trembling like before.

But Tormenta didn’t understand human reasoning; she only felt their absence, and it hurt. Don Ernesto watched the animal’s behavior from the gallery. You didn’t need to be an expert to see that the colt was falling apart. The bond that so many had questioned was now undeniable. And if that bond broke, Tormenta would revert to what she had been before: a danger, an uncontrollable animal, a living threat. The boss descended the steps slowly and walked straight toward the warehouse.

He gently knocked on the door with his knuckles. “Isabela, it’s me.” Silence. He waited a moment and then opened it without permission. He found her sitting on the floor, staring blankly. Her eyes were swollen, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to see her again. She hasn’t come back, but she will.” Don Ernesto nodded without approaching. “Most likely, yes, but that’s not what I came to talk to you about.” The girl barely glanced at him. “Tormenta is sick.”

Since you’ve been going back to being the same. Isabela lowered her gaze. He doesn’t need me. He’s strong. No, when he feels alone, she didn’t answer. The boss moved a little closer. His voice hardened, not harshly, but with weight. The vet is coming tomorrow at dawn. Isabela’s eyes snapped up. Why? You know why. The girl stood up abruptly. Her heart was beating so hard her chest ached.

No, they can’t. If the horse becomes a threat again, there’s no other option. It’s a decision I already made once, and if nothing changes today, I’ll make it again. Isabela was trembling. The air in the room grew thick. Today, only you can do something. Either you save him now, or there won’t be another chance. Don Ernesto left without another word. Not even five minutes had passed before Isabela ran across the yard, her heart aching and her throat tight with sobs she couldn’t let out.

The farmhands watched her flash by, speechless. Ramón lowered his head as if he knew he no longer had the right to speak. Isabela pushed open the corral gate forcefully and stepped inside without hesitation. When he saw her, he froze, looked at her, took a deep breath, took a step toward her, then another, and then he broke into a whinny. A deep, desperate cry, filled with something no one had ever heard before. Relief. Isabela ran toward him, didn’t walk, ran. She threw herself at his neck, embracing him with all her might.

Storm stood firm, lowered her head, and let out a long snort, almost a sigh. The girl wept, this time without hiding. She wept with her face buried in his fur, her fingers clutching his mane as if it were her only anchor in the world. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “Forgive me for leaving you.” The horse lay down beside her, enveloping her in his shadow. And there, in that corner of dust and sun, a broken bond was rebuilt, fragile, but real, and they still had time.

The sky was just beginning to clear when the first human figures gathered in front of the corral. The air was cold and still. The mist clung to the ground as if trying to delay the inevitable. No one spoke; only the crunch of boots on the gravel and the distant crowing of roosters broke the silence. The villagers, alerted by rumors that spread like wildfire, had arrived early. They wanted to see for themselves if what they were saying was true: that a street child had tamed the beast, that this horse, feared by all, obeyed her like a faithful dog, that this morning it might be slaughtered.

Don Ernesto paced back and forth, his brow furrowed and his stomach churning. He hadn’t slept, not for lack of sleep, but because of the decision hanging over him like a knife on a thread. The veterinarian was already there with his leather bag and his professional gaze. Ramón kept his eyes fixed on the ground, saying nothing. Something inside him no longer wanted to be part of what was about to happen. Tormenta swirled inside the corral like a raging storm.

He kicked, whinnied, and shook his head furiously. The white foam on his muzzle glistened in the first light of dawn. He wasn’t the calm colt they had seen with Isabela; he was the same as before, the dangerous, unpredictable one. “He’s out of his mind again,” a neighbor murmured. “Those animals don’t change,” another replied. “What that girl did was just a story. Where is she?” The question hung in the air like an invisible weight, and then the girl appeared.

Isabela walked through the crowd without stopping. She was barefoot, her dress worn by dust and time, her hair disheveled, her eyes steady. With every step, stares pierced her like knives. Some looked at her with pity, others with mockery, a few with fear, but she looked at no one, only at the corral. Don Ernesto saw her coming and felt something inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to name, break a little. The girl stopped beside him.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice. Isabela nodded. “Yes, sir.” And without another word, she stepped through the gate. The corral was a chaotic jumble of dust and noise. Tormenta pawed the ground, banged against the fences, and circled like a cornered animal. The girl walked unhurriedly toward him. Each step was a promise, a declaration of faith. People held their breath. “He’s going to kill her,” a woman shouted from the back. “Get her out of there, it’s madness.” But Don Ernesto didn’t move an inch.

Deep down, she knew this was her only chance. Tormenta whinnied loudly, rearing up on her hind legs, kicking the air. Isabela didn’t stop, didn’t run, didn’t scream, she just slowly raised a hand, as if caressing the wind. “Tormenta,” she said softly. “It’s me.” The horse stopped dead. Her front hooves pounded the ground. Her eyes locked on her; she was panting. Her whole body trembled. “I’m here, I didn’t leave.”

She took another step. Forgive me for running away. I was scared, but not anymore. Another step. You and I are made of the same clay, the same shadow. Tormenta twitched her ears and snorted. Isabela lowered her hand and kept walking until she was standing in front of him, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. The horse lowered his head just a little, and then she spoke in a barely audible tone. Don’t be afraid. Tormenta took a step, then another, and rested his muzzle against the girl’s chest.

An absolute silence fell over the ranch, as if the entire world had held its breath at once. Isabela raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck. She hugged him. With her eyes closed, her heart open. Tormenta didn’t move, she just lowered her head further and let herself be enveloped. From the fence, the murmurs began to grow. “See? It can’t be. He’s obeying.” Ramón took off his hat. “He did it,” someone murmured. The veterinarian put his syringe back in his bag and took two steps back without saying a word.

Don Ernesto wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath, as if he had just climbed out of a deep well. “No one touches him,” he ordered firmly. “No one even looks at him without the girl’s permission.” The crowd erupted in spontaneous applause, mingled with tears, sighs, and shouts. It wasn’t an ovation for a feat; it was something more intimate, a recognition of the impossible made flesh. Isabela turned to face the crowd. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn’t crying. She held her head high, like someone who had finally found her place.

And in her heart she knew it. That day she had not only saved Storm, she had also saved herself. The sun was barely peeking over the hills when the dust began to settle inside the corral. Storm, still with her muzzle pressed against Isabela’s chest, breathed heavily, as if the weight of the world had finally found rest. She remained still, her eyes closed, tenderly, patiently, lovingly caressing her crime. Outside, the silence was absolute, almost reverent.

Neither the dogs barked nor the birds chirped. The villagers, the laborers, the onlookers—all stood silent, as if unsure whether to applaud, weep, or simply observe without breaking the spell. Isabela took a step to the horse’s side. She ran her hand along its back, slowly, feeling every taut, yet restrained, fiber. Tormenta turned her head slightly, as if searching for Isabela’s gaze. There was no fear in her eyes. Nor was there any sign of her mission, only something profound, something that needed no name.

“May I?” she whispered, as if he could answer. The animal lowered his back slightly. Isabela placed one leg over his flank and, with the momentum of her slender arms, climbed on. There was no saddle, no bridle, no shouting, no whips, only skin against skin, one small body upon another, powerful. The crowd gasped. She’s going to fall. She’s crazy. That colt is going to explode. But nothing happened. Tormenta remained motionless. His ears back, not in fury, but attentive to her every sound, his legs firm, his tail still.

She was breathing heavily. Yes. But there was no tension, only determination. Isabela settled herself carefully, unhurriedly, and placed her hands on its neck. “Thank you,” she said as if speaking to an old friend. The horse took a step, just one, then another, and began to walk. People broke into murmurs. Some crossed themselves, others wept without realizing it. No one could understand what they were seeing because there was no logic to it. It wasn’t just that a girl was riding an untrained horse. It was who was doing it, how she was doing it.

She was the one no one wanted, the one who arrived nameless, without a story, without shoes, the street child, the invisible one. And now she was there, atop the most feared animal in town, guiding it without ropes, without orders, simply with her presence. Ramón put his hands to his head. He had never seen anything like it, he murmured. Don Ernesto didn’t speak either, he just watched with a fixed gaze, clutching his hat in his hands. He felt he was witnessing something bigger than himself, bigger than everyone.

Tormenta circled the corral with slow, steady steps. His gait wasn’t perfect. He was still afraid, still trembling, but he didn’t run away, he didn’t fight, he accepted. And in an animal like him, that was a greater surrender than any warrior’s. Isabela wasn’t trying to dominate him. She didn’t lean to the sides, nor did she guide him with her legs. She simply went with him, trusting, surrendering to his rhythm. When he finished the circle, the horse stopped on his own, lowered his head, and panted.

Isabela leaned toward his neck and kissed his warm, sweat-damp skin. “I’m with you,” she always said. She got off silently, sliding gently to the ground. Tormenta looked at her for another second and lay down as if to say, “Now I rest because I’m not alone anymore.” Don Ernesto was the first to break the silence. He took a few steps toward the corral, raised his hand, and spoke in a firm voice. “This animal will not be slaughtered. Not while I live.” The applause erupted like thunder held back for too long.

Some shouted the girl’s name, others simply wept. Isabela lowered her head, overwhelmed. She wasn’t used to having eyes on her. She had never been anyone’s hero, not even her own. But that morning something had changed. She was no longer invisible. Don Ernesto’s wife approached and placed a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What you did here is more than a miracle.” Isabela looked up, unsure what to say. So many emotions were swirling inside her.

Gratitude, relief, still fear, but also peace. “Can I stay?” he asked softly. “This place is yours now,” the woman replied. “You made it home.” That same day, at noon, the old car reappeared on the road. The woman driving it got out, furious at the sight of the crowd at the ranch entrance. “Where’s my daughter? I came looking for her.” Don Ernesto approached without fear, this time with his head held high. “She has a family now,” he said. “And here, for the first time in her life, she’s safe.”

The woman huffed, screamed, threatened to go to the police. But no one answered her. The neighbors, once passive witnesses, now surrounded Isabela as if she were a seed finally sprouting in fertile ground. The woman left, and this time for good. That night, as the ranch lights went out one by one, Isabela went out into the yard in silence. She walked to the corral and found Tormenta lying asleep under the stars. She sat down beside him with her arms crossed on her knees.

The air was warm and calm. She was no longer afraid, no longer had to run, because now she knew she had found her first step toward a new life, a life where she could finally stay. The next morning dawned with a different air, as if the sky itself were breathing lighter. The whole town was still talking about what had happened in the corral. A girl riding the untamed horse. Without reins, without fear. No one remembered such an event, not in stories, not in dreams.

Don Ernesto left his house early, as usual, but this time he wasn’t in a hurry. In his hands he carried an old, crumpled envelope. Inside were the signed documents for the culling of the storm animal: the official veterinarian’s report, the permit from the municipality, the insurance approval—everything ready to kill an animal that was no longer the same. He walked to the center of the corral, where the neighbors and farmhands were already waiting for him. Isabela, her hair loose and her dress still dusty, sat on the fence with her legs dangling and her hands clasped.

Tormenta grazed a few meters away, calm, as if she had always belonged there. Silence fell as soon as Don Ernesto held up the papers. These were the documents authorizing the horse’s death, he said in a firm but emotional voice. They were signed, sealed, and ready. People weren’t breathing. But last night I understood something, he continued. This animal wasn’t sick or cursed. She was alone, abandoned by everyone, just like anyone else. He turned to look at Isabela, who lowered her head, trying not to break down.

And if she was able to see it, to touch what no one else wanted to understand, then there is no greater authority than that. She took the papers in both hands and tore them in two, then in four, then into pieces so small the wind carried them away like ashes. Spontaneous applause erupted from the crowd. Then another. Then the whole town, their hands red with grief, stood applauding, not for the act itself, but for what it represented: redemption, hope, justice.

Amid the commotion, a figure made its way through the crowd. It was Isabela’s mother. She wore the same blouse as the day before, now wrinkled. Her makeup was smudged, her eyes darker with circles, and her pride wounded. Her gaze wasn’t tender, it was possessive. “Isabela!” she called, trying to be heard above the applause. The girl heard her, but didn’t move. She remained seated, her eyes fixed on the ground. “Isabela, I’m your mother. You have to come with me.” The crowd began to quiet down.

The palms lowered, and all eyes turned to the woman. Some already knew who she was; others only recognized the venom in her tone. She took a couple more steps. “You can’t stay here. This isn’t your place.” Don Ernesto intercepted her. “This isn’t a ranch for abuse or threats anymore.” He said in a dry voice, “I asked you not to come back. She’s my daughter. And where were you when she was sleeping in the rain? Where were you when she was begging for bread in the streets?” The woman clenched her fists.

That doesn’t matter. I came for her now. Don Ernesto looked at Isabela. The decision is yours. A murmur rippled through the town. Everyone looked at the girl who remained seated like a silent statue. Her eyes were filled with water, but not from tears. With certainty. She stood up slowly, unhurriedly, and walked to the center of the corral. The distance between her and her mother was only a few meters, but in her heart it was an abyss. The woman opened her arms, trying to appear affectionate.

“My child, come here.” Isabela didn’t approach. “Why now?” she asked calmly. The woman blinked. “What? Why are you looking for me now? Because I was on the radio, because everyone saw me.” The woman hesitated, unable to find the words. Her sweet expression began to fade. “You didn’t look for me when I had a fever,” the girl continued. “Or when I slept in doorways, or when my stomach ached with hunger.” A tear fell, but it wasn’t a tear of weakness, it was a tear of liberation. “And now I don’t need you.”

The mother took a step toward her. Isabela, the girl, took a step back. I had already chosen my place and, without looking back, walked toward Tormenta. The horse, as if understanding the magnitude of what had just happened, greeted her with a soft whinny. She stroked its back, rested her forehead against its neck, and breathed. The woman was left alone in the dust, surrounded by stares that were not of compassion, but of judgment. She knew she had lost, and this time, for good.

That afternoon, the ranch became more than just a work camp. It became a symbol. Children approached the corral to see the horse that only obeyed a little girl. Women left dried flowers on the fence as if it were an altar of hope. Men who before only knew how to shout now fell silent to listen. And at the center of it all, a little girl and her horse, one soul that had learned to trust again, another that had never stopped hoping. And between them, the greatest act of all, unconditional love. The ranch, the ravine, was never the same again.

That morning, not because the horses stopped neighing, nor because the dust stopped floating in the air, but because something deeper, invisible, had stirred within everyone—a seed, perhaps a new way of looking at what had previously seemed insignificant. Isabela no longer slept in the dark room of the warehouse. After the incident with her mother, Don Ernesto and his wife, Doña Teresa, as everyone called her, took her to live inside the main house.

It was an old building of solid wood and thick walls, where each room echoed with past lives. They had no children, they never could. The silence of the rooms always seemed normal to them until she was gone. Isabela entered timidly, barefoot, her gaze lowered, but Teresa took her hand without a word and led her down a hallway to a room at the end. A bed with white sheets, a nightstand with a lit lamp, an empty shelf, an open window through which the smell of damp earth drifted.

“This is your place,” the woman said, smiling. The girl didn’t answer; she just went over to the bed, ran her hand over the blankets, and sat down as if afraid of falling asleep. “No one’s going to kick you out,” Teresa added, “and no one’s ever going to force you to leave again.” Isabela nodded silently. That night she slept with the door closed and the window open, not out of fear, but out of habit. But before closing her eyes, she folded the blanket and laid it at her feet, just as she had done so many nights in the warehouse.

The days began to take shape. For the first time in her life, Isabela had a schedule—not imposed, but shared. She had an early breakfast, then a walk through the corrals with Don Ernesto, who was teaching her to observe the horses with a caretaker’s eye. “It’s not enough to see if they eat or walk,” he told her. “You have to read their souls in their bodies.” She listened attentively, memorizing each word as if they were precious stones. Later, Doña Teresa would teach her to read.

She would take old books out of a box in the living room, many with stained pages and faded letters. Isabela learned slowly, spelling aloud, stumbling between syllables, but making progress. “Each letter is a door,” Teresa would tell her. “And you no longer have to live with the windows closed.” Isabela would smile, sometimes shyly, sometimes with her whole face, but among all the new things—the bed, the hot food, the books, the gentle words—there was something that didn’t change: her connection to Storm.

Every afternoon, after her chores, Isabela would go to the corral, sometimes with bread in her hand, other times with only her voice. The horse, upon seeing her, would approach instantly, whinnying softly, resting his forehead against her chest. It was a sacred ritual, an encounter without witnesses. No one else could touch him, not Ramón nor the other farmhands. Sometimes they would try to approach, offer him water, speak to him, and he would turn his body indifferently. But with Isabela, everything was different. If she called him, he obeyed.

If she looked at him, he’d seek her out. That animal chose her, Ramón would say, scratching his head with resignation, as if she’d always been his. Don Ernesto nodded silently. At first, he struggled to understand, but with time he stopped trying to explain it. Not everything in life needs logic. Some things are simply felt, and that’s enough. One afternoon, while Isabela was sheltering from the storm under the shade of a jacaranda tree, Teresa approached her with a paper bag. “I brought you something.”

The little girl looked at it curiously. Inside was a new light cotton dress with embroidered flowers at the neckline. Nothing luxurious, but clean, her own. “It’s yours,” Teresa said, “for when you want to feel different or the same, it’s up to you.” Isabela held it to her chest, unsure what to say. No one had ever given her clothes. She had always worn whatever she found or whatever was left over. “Can I keep it for a special day?” “Of course.” And so she did. She folded it carefully and hid it in a drawer that had been empty before.

She didn’t know which day would be special, but for the first time, she looked forward to it. Sometimes at night, Isabela would go out onto the porch while everyone else slept. She would sit on the steps, gazing at the sky. She would think about everything that had changed, about what she had, about what she had lost: her mother, the streets, the hunger, the silence. She no longer felt resentment, only a distance, as if that other life had happened in another skin, in another version of herself.

A version that was no longer there, one early morning a storm roared fiercely. Don Ernesto ran out, fearing the worst. But when he reached the corral, he only found Isabela barefoot with a blanket over her shoulders, stroking the animal that had had a nightmare. “He got agitated,” she said. She dreamed something bad. “And how do you know? Because I felt it too.” The boss said nothing, just nodded and went back to the house. From that day on, he never doubted again. Isabela didn’t just live there, she was part of the soul of the ranch, and the storm was her reflection.

Two hearts that had finally found a home together where they always belonged. Time hadn’t changed the essence of Storm. He was still the same strong, imposing horse, with that gaze that seemed to pierce through anyone. But there was one truth that no one doubted anymore. Only Isabela could approach him, much less ride him. Several had tried, not out of pride, but out of simple curiosity. Ramón had tried once more when he wasn’t looking. The result was clear: a ferocious whinny, a kick against the fence, and a warning that needed no translation.

No one else dared after that, but with Isabela it was different. She approached him without fear, spoke to him in a low voice, brushed him tenderly, and when she climbed onto his back, the whole world seemed to fall into place as if they were one. It wasn’t dominance or training, it was pure trust. Isabela’s scars didn’t fade, neither those on her body nor those on her soul. But she didn’t try to hide them either. She learned to live with them like someone learning to walk with stones in their shoes, carefully, but without stopping.

She remembered the streets, the cold nights, the times she had to steal stale bread from an unguarded stall. She remembered the shouts, the locked doors, the insults that made her think she was worthless, but now she had something she’d never had before: time and space to transform those memories. And she did it every day. Don Ernesto, increasingly amazed by the girl’s maturity, began to entrust her with tasks that only he had previously done. He taught her to check the horses’ hooves, to clean minor wounds, to read the animals’ eyes to know if they felt fear or pain.

“Horses don’t scream,” he explained to her. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t speak; you just have to learn their language.” Isabel listened and learned quickly. Her hands were small but precise. She knew when to touch and when to wait. She had an instinct that amazed even the veterinarians who came to the ranch. And one day, looking at a newly arrived foal, Don Ernesto made her a proposal. “I want to open a space here for abused horses.” Isabel looked at him, her eyes wide.

Really. Yes. Abandoned animals, injured, discarded as useless. I want them to have a place, a home, just like you had yours. The girl didn’t answer immediately; she simply approached him and hugged him. The project started small. A colt with a weak leg, a mare blind in one eye, an old horse that no one wanted to feed anymore. They arrived by recommendation, by plea, by chance. And in each one, Isabela found something more than pain. She found a story. She didn’t just care for them; she named them, spoke to them, sang to them even while tending to their wounds or feeding them.

Words heal, too. I told Teresa. I know it. Over time, the back corrals filled with horses that weren’t perfect. Some limped, others didn’t whinny, but none felt inferior, because there was no punishment there, only patience. Visitors began to arrive, first from the town, then from elsewhere. They wanted to see the miracle of the ranch where a girl healed broken horses, not through technique, but out of love. Isabela wasn’t seeking recognition. She found it difficult to talk to strangers, but every time someone asked her how she did it, she gave the same answer.

Because I was like them too, and everyone understood. One summer afternoon, as the sky blazed with orange hues, Isabel mounted Tormenta and rode to the hill behind the ranch. It was her favorite spot. From there, she could see everything: the stables, the fields, the town in the distance. Tormenta always stopped in the same place. It seemed she liked to watch too. “Do you remember?” she whispered, stroking his neck. “Before, there was only silence and fear here.” The horse snorted contentedly.

Now there’s something more. That afternoon, before going down, she left a wildflower stuck between two stones. It wasn’t a grave, but a symbol, a reminder of everything they left behind and everything they could still build. At night, when the breeze turned cold, Teresa would read stories aloud to her while Isabela knitted with colorful yarn they bought in the village. She didn’t knit clothes; she knitted small blankets for the older horses, for the ones that shivered in winter.

“It’s not just us who need warmth,” she would say, and Teresa would smile with her eyes. Don Ernesto, for his part, watched her grow with a mixture of pride and amazement. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway of her room, listening to her read aloud, stumbling over some words, but never giving up. Other times he would find her asleep with a book, her forehead pressed against the page, her body covered by a blanket. He never woke her; he would simply turn off the light and close the door carefully.

Scars don’t disappear, but they heal and sometimes bloom. Isabela knew this, and that’s why every horse that arrived at the ranch found more than just food or shelter. It found a girl who had once been invisible and who now shone unintentionally, with the same gentleness with which the sun warms the earth after a storm. The wind blew softly across the fields of the ravine, making the golden ears of corn dance like a calm sea. The sun began to descend, painting the sky in coppery tones, as if the day were bidding farewell with a promise of return.

And in the midst of that warm light silhouetted against the horizon, a figure advanced with a firm step. A young woman rode a magnificent black horse. She wore neither saddle nor reins as usual. Her back was straight, her long hair flowing in the wind, and her hand resting tenderly on the animal’s neck. There was no tension, no force, no fear, only harmony. The villagers stopped to watch her every time she passed. It was no longer unusual to see her at dusk crossing the fields with that peace that seemed to envelop everything.

But even so, everyone was amazed. Some lowered their heads respectfully, others raised their hands in greeting, and the children, running between the fences, pointed at her excitedly. “Here comes the girl who talked to horses!” She smiled when she heard them, and although she was no longer a child, she remained part of that story they had created together. Isabela no longer lived in the big house on the ranch. Years before, Don Ernesto and Teresa had given her a small house a few meters from the stables, a simple structure of white adobe with a thatched roof, surrounded by wildflowers and with a hammock hanging under a willow tree.

There he lived simply, books on shelves, notebooks filled with notes, an old radio that only played instrumental music. His world was peaceful, made up of routines that nourished rather than suffocated him. Every morning began the same, with a walk to the corrals, a greeting to the horses, and a hushed conversation with Storm, who was already showing signs of age. His gait was slower, his gaze more nostalgic, but with the same gentle fire as always. “Time doesn’t change you, does it?” he would say as he brushed him.

It only makes you wiser. Tormenta snorted in response. He no longer ran like he used to, but he remained upright, his dignity intact, like someone who had loved and been loved. Don Ernesto and Teresa no longer actively worked on the ranch. They had retired three years earlier after a lifetime dedicated to the land and the animals. Now they lived in town, in a house with a garden and large windows. People respected them not only for what they had done, but for what they had allowed to flourish.

Isabela visited them every week with flowers, homemade bread, or simply with stories she told while they drank mate under the shade of a walnut tree. “Do you remember the day you first rode Tormenta?” Teresa would ask, smiling. “I remember it like it was yesterday,” Isabela would say. “I felt like I was flying, even though we never left the ground.” Don Ernesto would nod. “You flew. We all saw it. Not with our bodies, but with our souls.” The rehabilitation project had transformed into something bigger. Now it was known as Refugio Luz de Barro (Mud Light Refuge), a tribute to the place where she was born, amidst the dust and mud in which she once felt trapped.

Horses arrived from all over, some physically injured, others with invisible wounds. And to all of them, Isabela offered the same thing: presence, time, and silence. She had helpers now, young people from the village who wanted to learn not how to break horses, but how to care for them. She taught them to look beyond fear, to read subtle gestures, to have patience. “It’s not about the horse listening to you,” she told them, “it’s about it trusting that you won’t hurt it.” And they listened attentively, with respect.

But among all the horses, Tormenta remained unique. She no longer rode him every day, only on special occasions. She knew his body was tired, that he deserved rest. But when the sun set and the wind was gentle, sometimes she would speak softly to him. “Let’s go one more time.” And Tormenta, as if he were still young, would lower his head and take the first step. That particular evening, as they rode through the fields, Isabela stopped at the hill where, years before, she had left a flower among the stones.

The flower was gone, but the place remained the same. He dismounted and sat down on the long grass. He gazed at the horizon, the paths crisscrossing the valley, the clouds that seemed to be in no hurry. Storm lay down beside him. She gently stroked his forehead. “You know,” she said, “sometimes I think about what would have happened if you had never been there, if they hadn’t brought you, if I hadn’t seen you that day from my corner among the hay bales.”

The horse closed its eyes. I don’t think it would be alive. Not like this, not really. They remained like that in silence. When the sun touched the horizon, Isabela stood up, storm included, and with a slow, almost ceremonial movement, she climbed onto its back, not as a rider, but as a companion. And as the sky turned gold, she rode slowly down the slope, crossing the fields like a sigh. From afar, the voices of children began to be heard.

Mom, look, it’s her, the little girl who talked to horses, but now she was a woman, one who learned to heal without shouting, to touch without invading, to love without demanding. And although she was no longer a child, she continued to talk to horses and to all those who, like her, had once needed to be heard. Sometimes the most powerful bonds are not born of power, or control, or blood ties, but of shared pain, of tenderness that doesn’t demand, and of the decision to stay when everyone else has left. Isabela didn’t tame the storm, she understood it. And in that understanding, they both healed.