Elders often say that one never really leaves his land. For a long time, I thought they were right. Then I left Granada. And I realized they were wrong. We're leaving his land. We're leaving his mountains. We're leaving his houses. We even leave his dead. What refuses to leave, on the other hand, is memories.
After the floods, our world was only a field of ruins. Some families left immediately. Others tried to rebuild. A few began to believe that everything would become the same as before. But the elders knew. The camp had survived the wars. Famines. To the changes of kings. Centuries. He had not survived the disappearance of his children.
I think that's when Ella finally accepted the idea of leaving.
Manuel was the first to speak seriously about Paris. His cousins had lived there for several years. They were working. Renting an apartment. Sometimes they sent money. For us who had only known the hills of Granada, it almost looked like another planet.
I remember a night when we were all three sitting. Manuel. Mom. And me. Fire was burning weak. The wind was coming down from the Sierra Nevada. And Manuel was talking about France. Mills. Work. Buildings. Streets lit up all night. I was watching the hills destroyed behind him. And, for the first time, the idea of leaving no longer seemed impossible.
A few weeks later, we left Andalusia. I remember the last look I looked at Granada. I remember the Alhambra. Mountains. Darro. Hills. I remember looking for the black figure one last time. Like a child who hopes to see a monster to be sure he exists. I don't live anything. And yet I didn't feel reassured.
The trip was long. Then came Paris. The noise. The buildings. Rain. The cold. The crowds. Nothing looked like what I'd known. At first, I hated this town. Then I learned to love him. Because she was offering me something Grenada couldn't give me anymore. Forget it. At least I thought so.
Ella died a few years after our arrival. Quietly. In her sleep. I was at her bedside when she opened her eyes for the last time. I remember she looked at me for a long time. Then she smiles. A real smile. Not the one who haunted me all my childhood. A sweet smile. Tired. Human.
- See, little...
His voice was weak. Almost a breath.
- Finally... We managed to leave.
Those were his last words. I've ironed them in my head a lot. Because deep down, I still don't know if she was talking about Granada. Or Kamino.
Life continued, however. She's still going on. Manuel found work. We built an existence. A real one. Simple. Ordinary. And, for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged to the world of normal people.
Then I realized I was pregnant. Nine months after Rodrigo's disappearance. Nine months after that night at the edge of the Darro. Nine months after Kamino entered my life for the last time.
I didn't know what to feel. I was scared. Shame. And yet, when I took my daughter in my arms for the first time, all this disappeared.
I called him Ella. In memory of the one who had guided us all his life.
Manuel knew the whole story. At least as much as I could tell. He never judged me. He never asked a question. He never made any difference. He considered Ella his own daughter. No hesitation. No condition.
That's when I realized what love really was. Not desire. Not passion. Not obsession. Love. The real one. The one who chooses to stay.
The years passed. Ella's growing up. Then became a woman. In turn, she gave birth to a girl. Your mother. Julie.
I thought the story was over. That Kamino belonged to the past. That the hills of Granada were far enough to never reach us again.
I was wrong.
Life is thus made. She always finds a way to remind us that the past still exists.
Your mother left too soon. Too soon. And when she died, I took you in my arms like mom took Maeva. Like Ella took care of us. Like so many women before them.
So I raised you. You. My little Dianne. I tried to pass on to you everything that deserved to be kept. Love. Freedom. Courage. And maybe a few fears you'd have done well.
Today, I'm old. My memories sometimes mix. Some faces fade. Some dates, too. But not this story. Never that story.
Because deep down, I still don't know what Kamino was. A curse? A spirit? A legend invented by generations of women to give meaning to disappearances? Or just that dark part that exists in every human being?
I never found the answer. And I don't think anyone will ever find her.
I only know one thing. For centuries, Kamino won. He took fathers. Sons. Lovers. Friends. He destroyed our camp. Dispersed our people. Turned our story into memory.
And yet...
We're still here. You and me. Sitting in this house. Talking about those who preceded us. To pass on their stories. To continue to love in spite of everything.
Then listen to your old grandmother Dianne.
If Kamino really exists, we must not fight him with fear. Not with hatred. Not with secrets. Because it is precisely the weapons he prefers.