Don't answer when she calls.
Ana stood beneath the sea.
She looked up at the sunlight trembling far above her.
Then she heard someone call her name.
"Ana."
She turned. Her mother was waiting.
Smiling.
Her arms were open.
And for the first time, Ana could no longer remember whether her mother had ever
been alive.
She stepped toward her.
The ocean closed over her head.
The bells began ringing.
And on the island of San Isidro, the sun disappeared for thirteen minutes.
No one knew why.
No one remembered the girl who had caused it.
No one remembered the brother who had come looking for her.
No one remembered the family whose names had been carved into the church wall.
But every night at 2:17, the bells still rang.
Twelve bells for the dead.
And one for the person who was still trying to remember she had once been alive.
If you listen carefully from the mainland, you can hear it.
Not the bells.
Not the waves.
A woman's voice beneath the water.
Calling your name.
Waiting for you to answer.